Redeemable
by Sakuri
Summary: Harry finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash. Discontinued.
1. Chapter 1

**Sakuri: **I'm afraid to say I'm a bit stuck in writing 'Standing', all of two chapters in. Tuts. Sorry to those who're reading it. I'll try and go back when I get some inspiration.

Anyway, I prefer writing fanfics set in Hogwarts. I think that's what was missing from 'Standing'. So here's another try xD

As with 'Secrets', I hav no idea where this story is going beyond the first couple of chapters at this moment in time. Here's hoping you guys like it just as much anyway.

Also, I realised the premise of this fanfiction is somewhat cliché (the whole 'bond' thing between Harry and Draco) but bear with me here. I think I've still got a few original twists to throw in here and there...

--

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 1**: The Game

--

Christmas was just around the corner and Hogwarts castle was done up to the rafters with so many decorations that Harry could only reason that this must be what it was like to live _inside _a Christmas tree. It was his sixth Christmas at the wizarding school, so he really should have been used to it by now, and yet never failed to be amazed by the layout. There was tinsel everywhere, in the most inconvenient of places. At the breakfast table, Harry would reach for his buttered toast, only to have to sit and pick sparkly strands from the bread before he could safely consume it. With vague annoyance, he'd spent several nights unwinding red and gold ropes of the stuff from the posts of his bed, only to wake and find them back in place. He assumed the house elves were doggedly maintaining the decorative cheer. He had no doubt that Dobby was personally responsible for burying him in the constant shower of glitter and baubles that seemed to be following him around the school.

The corridors were festooned with wreathes of holly and ivy and yet more tinsel. Students spent a good deal of time either frantically avoiding or hopefully aiming for the sprigs of mistletoe which hovered above doorways. Peeves had taken a particular interest in them this year, and more than once had been seen zooming up and down halls clutching a bunch of the white berries, in hot pursuit of the more timid individuals who were unfortunate enough to cross his path.

In the Great Hall, eight massive fir trees had been dragged inside by Hagrid, and one stood at each end of each House Table. It had to be said that the house elves had an excellent eye for decoration. Every tree was draped in ornaments and golden filigree that dazzled the eye. Harry had never seen anything close to these trees in a muggle household, and suspected that more than a little magic had been used to weave the glamour surrounding them.

Currently, he sat gazing absently at one of them as he stirred his cornflakes distractedly. His eyes focused and unfocused, so that the lights dancing about the massive fir blurred pleasantly in his vision.

His reverie was unceremoniously interrupted when Hermione elbowed him sharply. His elbow slipped across the table top, almost depositing his chin into the bowl of soggy cereal in front of him. "Wha–?"

"Ssh!" she snapped irritably, as if his sudden spasmodic movement was entirely his own doing. "The Headmaster's about to give his speech."

Harry considered this a completely unreasonable explanation for her abuse. Rubbing his arm where her pointy elbow had jabbed him, he reluctantly turned his attention towards the Staff Table in time to see Dumbledore slowly rising to his feet.

The Headmaster clapped his hands twice, and instantly commanded the attention of the room. He smiled good naturedly as his students stopped their chatter to listen.

"It would seem the season of goodwill is upon us," he began with a smile, the trademark blue twinkle in place above his half-moon spectacles. "And with it comes the New Year." He paused to look at each of the House Tables in turn. "And in the name of both goodwill and a new beginning, I have a proposition for those of you who will be remaining with us over the Christmas holidays."

Harry glanced past Hermione to where Ron sat, who raised a wary eyebrow. While Hermione was joining her parents for the next two weeks, they were both staying at Hogwarts, and they'd learned well enough to have a healthy respect for Dumbledore's 'propositions' by now.

"This year, we're going to try something new. I must confess, I'm about to embark us on yet another attempt at improving inter-House relations."

There was a rather deadpan silence at that. In the past few months, rivalries between the Houses – particularly Slytherin and Gryffindor – had spiralled out of control, and Dumbledore had tried everything in his power to repair 'inter-House relations'. He'd shuffled classes so that, for many lessons, Gryffindors found themselves sharing with their most hated rivals. He'd moved the House Tables directly next to each other. He'd threatened to cancel Quidditch. And when _that _had failed spectacularly, he'd decided that training schedules for the upcoming matches would be synchronised – which had failed even more spectacularly. Harry still had bruises on his hip and shoulder from taking a tumble off his broom when he and Malfoy had gotten into a fist fight midair. Luckily, he'd managed to drag the scandalised Slytherin down with him, and the git had been in the Hospital Wing for half the day with a broken nose.

It went without saying that no one was best pleased to hear of _another _futile attempt to 'patch things up'. Even the professors had frozen in place, obviously not prepared for whatever Dumbledore was about to suggest and dreading it just as much as their students. Though they put on a brave face of supporting the Headmaster's philosophy of uniting the Houses, McGonagall, among others, had been overheard more than once stating that he was simply pitting Slytherin against Gryffindor to no gain.

"This year," Dumbledore continued, unperturbed by the nonplussed silence he was met with from all corners, "we are going to take advantage of this fabulous time of year and indulge in a muggle tradition which I hope will prove helpful."

A collective mutter rippled over the Hall at the word 'muggle'. To those like Harry and Hermione, it hardly mattered, but even Ron frowned in curiosity, and it was impossible not to hear the increasingly loud complaints of the Slytherins sat directly behind them. Malfoy's nasal whine rang out above the others. "Well, I hope he doesn't expect _me _to participate in anything cooked up by muggles and mudbloods..."

Next to Harry, Hermione stiffened at the insult. He touched her arm and cast a narrow eyed glare over his shoulder. The blonde caught his look and calmly raised an eyebrow while flipping him off.

Harry turned away, resolving to 'accidently' shove the git off his broom – again – the next time they were forced to fly together at practice.

Dumbledore waited patiently for the murmuring to cease. He tapped his fingers idly and looked towards the ceiling, which showed a festive scene of gently drifting snowflakes across a backdrop of deep blue clouds.

When all was quiet again, he pushed his spectacles further up his nose and swept the room with a glance. "I must assure you, _everyone _who plans on spending their holidays here _will _be participating." Though he spoke as calmly and pleasantly as ever, there was no mistaking the order he was issuing. "Now then. This will hardly be a trial. I think you'll find yourselves quite enjoying the festive spirit." He was practically beaming at this point – and anyone who knew Dumbledore knew that this was the time to start worrying.

"Tomorrow morning, each student still here will be asked to draw a slip of paper from the Sorting Hat. On this slip of paper you will find a name. It will be the name of another student from a different House. Now, you mustn't reveal the name you have drawn to anyone. Your mission this holiday will be to find the perfect present for that person. I believe the muggles call it 'Secret Santa'."

Harry shook his head. That was it? That was nothing! God, he'd been started to dread all sorts! Grinning, he looked down the table at Ron, who was looking equally relieved. The redhead leaned closer. "Don't worry mate. I'll still get you something even if I don't get your name."

"You won't get his name Ron," Hermione interrupted. "Didn't you listen? It'll be someone from another House. I suppose that's why he's using the Sorting Hat..."

"Ah well, shouldn't be too bad," Ron went on, reaching for a croissant and cramming it into his mouth. "I was expecting worse."

"Must you speak with your mouth full?" Hermione scolded, wrinkling her nose as she brushed croissant crumbs from her arm. "And for all you know, you could be paired up with a Slytherin."

"Hermione!" Harry broke in, incredulous. "Don't jinx it!"

"Oh, don't be so superstitious..."

They dissolved into the usual banter, and all too soon the idea of the Secret Santa game was but a vague notion of little concern...

--

Hermione and everyone else who was going home for the holidays left that evening. Harry and Ron saw her off as she got into one of the horseless carriages, obediently nodding as she issued the last of her warnings about their good behaviour while she was away. Honestly, the woman was suited to being the next McGonagall if ever a witch was.

Harry patted one of the Thestrals as the deathly black horses led the carriages past. A few other students cast him strange looks – understandably, considering to them it must look as if he was patting thin air – but he ignored them and began to meander back towards the castle alongside Ron.

He'd spent the previous summer at the Burrow. At the time, he'd almost resented staying there. After all, hadn't he been meant to stay with Sirius that summer? Even now, it still felt horribly cruel that his godfather had been snatched away from him just as everything had been starting to look up. During the summer it had been even worse... He'd had moments, dark moments, when he'd lashed out at Ron and his brothers, and even Mrs Weasley, whose affection and genuine remorse only made him feel his loss more keenly. More than once he'd considered leaving the Burrow, thinking anything had to be better than the sense of suffocation and bitterness to be found there. He'd known he'd hit bottom when he'd thought about willingly returning to the Dursleys...

It had to have been hell living with him in those weeks. Ron clearly hadn't known how to act around him, and Harry hadn't really blamed him when his friend had taken to avoiding him when he was in his worse moods.

In fact, the only person who had persisted in talking to him on a regular basis was Ginny. At first, when he'd made it perfectly clear he didn't want company or conversation, she'd taken it in stride, and simply sat in silence with him. Sometimes she'd stayed for hours; hours and hours Harry spent trying to ignore her, waiting for her to leave, expecting her to grow impatient or offended. She never did. She'd brought books and read quietly while he brooded.

Eventually, she'd started to talk to him. Well. More like talk _at _him, since he'd never been in the mood to return idle chitchat. She'd tell him about the book she was reading, or the Quidditch match she'd just played against the twins, or how unfair Molly could be, or the new gadget Arthur had brought home. He'd let her chatter wash over him, almost surprised to find it didn't grate on his nerves, and that he'd become quite used to her presence. Some days he didn't take in a word she said, but rather enjoyed having her voice in the background. The day she surprised a laugh from him was the day he noticed her. _Really _noticed her.

She'd brought him out of himself again. She made him want to stop grieving, and instead listen to the next silly, trivial story she had for him as if it was of the utmost importance. For a while, this had made him feel even guiltier, but she'd dispelled that notion as well.

Ron had been so relieved to see his friend returning to normal that he even permitted the obvious Something that had developed between Harry and his younger sister. He'd made it clear from the start that he didn't want to know the details – but in all honesty, there _were _no details. Not then, anyway. It had been more of an... understanding they'd had.

In the following months, with the return to Hogwarts, Harry had felt what remained of the wound left by Sirius's loss heal over. He still missed his godfather, but it was no longer a debilitating grief or sense of guilt, as it had been. And he'd known who was largely responsible for helping him. He just hadn't known what to do about it.

It had been Hermione who'd given him a shove in the right direction, as always. She'd said it was exasperating watching two people dance and dither around each other. He'd looked between her and Ron and agreed whole heartedly.

He asked Ginny to go out with him the same week.

"Oi, mate!"

Harry snapped out of his wandering thoughts to turn and look at Ron. "Sorry, what?"

"I was asking who you think you're gonna get for this Secret thing tomorrow."

"Oh. I don't know. Does it matter? If it's a girl I'll get them jewellery. Quidditch stuff if it's a guy."

The redhead cast him a sulky glare. "Easy for some. Merlin knows what _I'm _gonna be able to afford... Extra bloody present on top of everything else..."

Harry kept quiet, knowing it to be a foolish move to offer Ron a loan of money. He'd tried that before, in all innocence, and only succeeded in severely insulting his friend's pride.

They reached the entrance to the school then, and spent a moment stamping the snow from their boots and brushing it from their shoulders and hair. The warmth of artificial Heating Charms flooded over them, a relief after the winter chill outside. Harry couldn't wait to get back to the common room and lounge in front of a roaring fire, maybe play chess with Ron.

"Baubles," Ron said to the portrait of the Fat Lady when they reached the entrance. Drinking a glass of cherry wine, she swung forward merrily for them and they hurried past.

No sooner had Harry set foot into the room beyond, a happy cry of, "Harry!" caught his attention, and he was abruptly presented with an armful of Ginny. He blinked in surprise as she waved something in front of his eyes before raising it above their heads. "Look, it's mistletoe," she announced, before kissing him soundly on the mouth.

There was a collective mocking, "Whoooooo!" from the Gryffindors watching, and a rather gruff, "Bloody hell, mate, keep it private, yeah?" from Ron, who edged around the pair with a disgruntled scowl.

"Uhm, sorry," Harry muttered, rather taken aback. Ginny grinned at her brother's discomfort, pecked Harry again, before pulling away to rejoin the group of girls she'd been with before his entrance.

Awkwardly clearing his throat – no matter how hard he tried, he still wasn't good with public displays of affection – Harry shuffled after Ron, who'd had the same idea about relaxing in front of the fire. The redhead glared at him half-heartedly when he too sat down.

"What have I told you about not wanting to see your tongue down my sister's –"

"There was no tongue!" Harry interrupted, not wanting _this _conversation to go much further.

"Hn," Ron grunted, rolling his eyes sullenly.

Harry shook his head. He was used to that attitude. He didn't think Ron really _meant _it, if he was honest. The redhead had been _far _worse when Ginny had been dating other people...

He yawned suddenly, and decided a game of chess was too much effort. He was going to bed.

After he'd removed the mounds of tinsel from his bed, of course...

--

The Great Hall seemed sparsely populated the next morning. At the Gryffindor table, there was only Harry, the two Weasleys, Lavender, Parvatti and a few members of the younger years. At the Hufflepuff table, Harry only recognised Hannah Abott and Ernie Macmillan, though there was a smattering of younger students and one or two Seventh Years. Of the Ravenclaws, he knew only Terry Boot and Luna Lovegood. He didn't bother to check the Slytherin table.

It seemed Dumbledore was eager to start the game he'd thought up. Harry had barely sat down when McGonagall stepped down from the Staff Table, Sorting Hat in hand. She cleared her throat impatiently. "Can the First Years form an orderly line and come choose a name from the Hat." She didn't sound as if she exactly relished her job at that moment. Most of the professors were looking bored or sceptical, in fact. Snape looked positively incensed with the whole performance.

Harry watched with mild interest as the small group of eleven year olds shuffled into place, shyly took theirs slips of paper and hurried back to their seats. The process was repeated with Second Years and so on, until it was almost their turn. He smiled at Ginny as she returned to her seat next to him. "Who'd you get?"

She unfolded the little scrap of paper beneath the table and showed him. On it was written the name, _Luna Lovegood_.

"Now, Sixth Years, if you please."

Harry and Ron rose to their feet, the redhead still yawning. They traipsed to the front of the Hall behind Lavender and Parvatti, and waited in line as the students ahead of them took their bits of paper.

Harry shifted from foot to foot impatiently. He was hungry, and wanted to get this over with so he could return to breakfast.

It came to Ron's turn. The boy thrust his hand into the Hat and retrieved a name, turning away without looking at it.

"Your turn, Mr Potter."

Sighing, Harry took his own scrap of paper. Curious, he opened it as he began to walk back towards the Gryffindor Table.

And froze.

He turned back automatically. "Professor, there must be a mistake."

McGonagall cast him an impatient glance. "The Sorting Hat doesn't make mistakes, Mr Potter. It's rather the point of the game to be made to think about someone we wouldn't usually think about."

"But –"

"Sit down, Mr Potter. There are others waiting in line."

Reluctantly, Harry made his way back to his seat. His protest had attracted a few raised eyebrows, and as soon as he sat down Ron and Ginny turned on him.

"What was that?"

"Who'd you get?"

Wordlessly, Harry unfolded the slip of paper in his lap. The pair read it and blanched. Written in cursive script was the name, _Draco Malfoy_.

Ron groaned. "That's bloody ridiculous," he growled angrily. "You can't be expected to... to..."

"Buy presents for that snake!" Ginny finished in a hiss, just as outraged.

Harry shook his head. "You're right. This is stupid." And with that, he screwed up the paper into a ball, tossed it into the air and murmured a quick, "_Incendio_!" It disappeared with a brief spark.

"Won't Dumbledore know you're not doing it?" Ginny asked, chewing her lip.

He shrugged. "It's all supposed to be secret, right? Who's going to know it was me who didn't get the git anything?"

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "Damn right," he said through a mouthful of bacon.

Sighing, Harry glanced up as Malfoy received his own slip of paper from the Hat. The Slytherin didn't bother to open it. Harry watched him crumple the paper as he walked back to his seat, dropping it into a glass of pumpkin juice belonging to an oblivious Hufflepuff.

"Besides," he muttered, "looks like I'm not the only one who's not playing."


	2. The Request

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 2**: The Request

--

It was a little known fact, but Draco Malfoy loved Christmas. Some of his fondest memories were of Christmas at Malfoy Manor. Every room would be decked out with the most elegant, opulent decoration, his mother's personal touch apparent in every wreath arrangement and mantelpiece adornment. She didn't allow the house elves to take charge of the Christmas decorations, as one might expect. This was one time of year in which Narcissa Malfoy thrived.

The season also brought out the best in his father. Lucius was always home for that holiday. Draco could even remember him laughing – a rich, deep sound which was heard far too rarely. Once a year, usually on Christmas morning, he and Narcissa would stand beneath the mistletoe and allow their Malfoy masks to drop. His mother would positively glow and his father transformed into the man Draco imagined he'd once been at Hogwarts.

Narcissa would cook Christmas dinner – but in truth, she was a terrible cook. There would be burnt turkey and underdone potatoes and a mountain of vegetables to try and hide the multitude of sins. Lucius would make his best effort to praise his wife's attempts, his expression a frozen smile as he forced down the toughened meat. Narcissa would apologise once again, as she did every year, and would finally relent and ask the house elves to redo dinner.

Afterwards, they would sit by the fire, the room still littered with discarded wrapping paper and covered with the pine needles of a shedding Christmas tree. Narcissa would permit him a single glass of mulled wine, after which he usually fell asleep downstairs.

These were Draco's enduring memories of Christmas.

It hurt more than he was willing to admit that he would not be going home this year. It felt like something was horribly, horribly wrong, to be stuck here at the school while his parents had Christmas without him.

Still. He supposed it would not be the same Christmas which existed in his memories. At least, not this year.

Draco wasn't naive. He knew the reason he was being kept away. After the Dark Lord had pulled the strings to free his father from Azkaban, their family had owed him a great debt, on top of Lucius already being sworn to him. Malfoy Manor had therefore become the new headquarters of the Death Eaters and their Lord, and as such it was no place to be hosting _Christmas _parties, of all things, or have a teenager running about underfoot. Draco couldn't help but resent this, though logically he knew he should be pleased his father was in such high favour.

But oh, how it grated to be trapped here, surrounded only by professors who irritated him and students who despised him. Not even his friends had stayed with him, Pansy and Blaise and even Theodore having gone home to be with their families. Crabbe and Goyle, thankfully, were still present. He might have felt a little vulnerable otherwise, a lone snake in the lion's den.

The next two weeks were going to be hell. It had only been the better part of a day and, though he hated to admit it... he was already lonely. And bored. And _annoyed _beyond belief by the smallest things.

This game of Dumbledore's, for example. Had there _ever _been anything so inane, so... _muggle-esque_. He certainly wasn't playing, that was for sure. And if anyone was half-witted enough to involve him in it by actually buying him a present, he'd make sure their thoughtful gift found an appropriate resting place. Perhaps the bottom of the lake...?

He decided he'd need something to do over this holiday, because Crabbe and Goyle were far from the stimulating company he was accustomed to. Useful if he wanted someone pulverised without getting his own hands dirty, yes, but carrying out a real conversation? _Not_ their strong point.

That said, there was not a lot springing readily to mind. The Room of Requirement had briefly occurred to him, but these days it was almost constantly occupied by Potter's private little army, the DA, which had resumed at the start of this year. Draco didn't fancy being caught short on his own when Potter's minions descended on the Room. They'd lynch him.

He'd then entertained the idea of working on another potions project with Severus, but that notion had quickly gone out the window. Severus was as tetchy as anyone else involved with the Dark Lord, and more than once had impatiently ordered Draco out from under his feet, putting the potions lab off limits to him.

Bored out of his mind, Draco had ended up in the library. After flashing the prefect badge and the note from Severus which granted him access to most areas, he wandered around the shelves for the better part of an hour as he sought something that would catch his interest. He needed a project. A distraction. He needed _something _to stop him going insane, for Merlin's sake!

Sighing irritably, the Slytherin trailed a hand along the spines of several books, before picking one at random. Flipping it open, he examined the title without much expectation.

Something fluttered from between the pages.

Looking down, he watched a scrap of paper drift to the floor. Frowning, he kneeled to retrieve it. Only when he unfolded it and read the brief scrawl of writing did he recognise it as the note he'd chosen from the Hat that morning. The one he'd disposed of at the first opportunity.

He stared at the paper in amazement. What was it doing back? Was this some kind of magic?

_Michael Corner_, it read. Draco sneered. Oh, he wouldn't put it past that senile old man to have put a spell on these things. What? Was the note going to keep following him until he gave in and played the game? What if he didn't? The most threatening thing Draco could think of was getting a papercut from the thing.

Shaking his head, he placed the name back inside the book, which was then slammed shut and put back on the shelf.

He would not be bullied by a haunted bit of paper.

--

Later that evening, Harry and Ginny made their way back down from the Astronomy Tower. _They_, at least, had found a way to entertain themselves whenever there was a spare hour or so in the day.

"I'm glad you didn't go home for Christmas," Harry murmured, squeezing the hand that held his.

Ginny smiled. "Well even if I had, you know Mum would have loved to have you over for the holidays."

Harry wasn't so sure. The last time Mrs Weasley had seen him, he'd still been brooding and sullen, after six long weeks of driving her spare with worry. He imagined she'd quite like to have a normal holiday, for once. He didn't say as much, however.

"So what are you going to get Luna?" he asked instead, changing the topic.

She shrugged as they made their way down the next flight of stairs. "Oh I don't know. You know what Luna's like. I could tie bottle caps to a string as a necklace and she'd be happy with that."

Harry smiled. "Too bad. I think she already has one of those."

Ginny chuckled, then snorted sceptically. "What are you getting Malfoy?"

"Ha! I wouldn't waste a knut on that bastard..."

"But... You heard what Dumbledore said. He wants _everyone _to do it..."

"You really think I should worry about buying _Malfoy _a gift?" Harry asked incredulously.

"No. It just... It's _Dumbledore_. He'll know if you cheat, Harry."

"It's not cheating!" he protested. "I just don't want to play the stupid game. Ron agrees with me."

She sighed. "Ron doesn't always give the best advice..."

"Look. It's not like Dumbledore's going to give me some terrible punishment for not playing a game, even if he does find out. Stop worrying."

She supposed he was right, and dropped the subject.

He let go of her hand as they entered the Gryffindor common room, although Ron still cast them a sour look, able to guess well enough what they'd been doing. Harry glanced around. The common room was fairly empty, though he noted that the Ravenclaw Terry Boot was sat on one of the couches with Lavender. Idly, Harry wondered if the two had started seeing each other.

He moved past the couple towards Ron, who was sat playing a game of Exploding Snap with Colin Creevey, but put down his hand with their approach.

"What time do you call this?" he demanded.

Ginny gave him a deadpan stare. "What business is that of yours?"

"It's my business when my little sister's out 'til all hours –"

"'All hours'?! It's barely gone 11! And we're in a _school_! What exactly do you think's going to happen?!"

"I know damn well what's _already_ happened!" He shot a glare at Harry.

Ginny threw up her hands. "And once again, I'll remind you that it's _none of your business_!"

Harry, who'd witnessed this kind of argument before, sidled away as subtly as he could manage. Screw Gryffindor courage, this was one fight he was _not _getting in the middle of. He'd learned that lesson well enough.

Unnoticed, he slipped away and up the stairs to his dorm room. He was the only boy in the bedroom, with Ron downstairs and everyone else away. Quickly, he took out his pyjamas and began getting changed.

As he picked up the T-shirt he slept in, something caught inside it crinkled in his hand. Shaking the article of clothing, he watched a piece of paper flutter down to land on the quilt of his bed. He grinned and reached for it, wondering if it was a note Ginny had left for him to find.

_Draco Malfoy. _

The name jumped out at him, emblazoned in a familiar cursive script. It was the very same piece of paper he'd reduced to so much ash that very morning.

Unnerved, he snatched it up and ripped it in two, then four, and finally to little pieces which he took to the window and threw into the night air.

This was ridiculous. He was _not _going to play Secret Santa to _Malfoy_. There was just _no _way...

The good mood his date with Ginny had left him in abruptly vanished, and it was with foul temper he ripped down the ever reappearing strings of tinsel, bundling them up before sending them the same way as the note. Maybe the house elves would take a hint this time...

--

The next day, Draco discovered the note a total of five times, and always in the most random places. And that was only by noon. By dinner time he was dreading the rest of the day, brought to frantically running his fingers through his previously immaculate blond hair, a nervous habit he'd never quite overcome. He was sick of trying to destroy or lose the little thing. He'd cursed and hexed it a dozen different ways, to no avail. He'd dropped it into the common room fire. He'd even tried handing it off to Goyle, in the vain hope of 'tricking' the note into thinking it had a new owner.

Obviously, he hadn't been successful.

Now, it was becoming a matter of principle. Really, it would have been much easier to give in and buy a gift. It wasn't like he couldn't afford something, and there was a convenient Hogsmeade trip coming up. He didn't even particularly dislike Corner, who was a Ravenclaw and therefore tolerable – although he did have that mark against him for being part of Potter's fanclub.

It was just stubborn pride which kept him resisting Dumbledore's game.

And Draco's trials were nothing compared to Harry's, who would leave one room after shredding the note, only to immediately find it in the next, sitting innocently in plain sight. Ginny was growing exasperated with the flashes of temper that came over him whenever he saw it. She said he was being stupid, since Dumbledore _obviously _wanted him to participate, and wouldn't it be better to just _do what he was asked for once in his life_?! They'd been arguing by that point, and she'd yelled that last part across the Gryffindor common room. Harry had stormed away from her, offended and more than a little annoyed that she seemed to think _any _kind of friendly gesture towards Malfoy was acceptable.

Ron agreed with him. He and Harry had shared more than a few impassioned rants about the unfairness of the situation. Harry was always spurred on by his friend's fervent outrage on his behalf, but now and then he would remember what Ginny had said, about Ron not giving the best advice, and wish that Hermione hadn't gone home for Christmas. She'd always been the voice of reason, and he supposed he would have ended up listening to whatever she suggested should she have been around to ask.

The Hogsmeade visit came a few days before Christmas. Ginny bought Luna a brightly coloured bracelet and Ron bought a box of Honeydukes chocolate for Hannah Abott – after being persuaded by Harry and Ginny that, _no_, she would not appreciate the latest Zonko's products.

Harry steadfastly refused to look at anything Malfoy might like. ­

While in Hogsmeade, they stopped at the Three Broomsticks. There were other Hogwarts students already there, sheltering from the snow and nursing bottles of butterbeer. The trio moved to join them, easily striking up a conversation with Parvatti and Lavender, Ernie Macmillan, Luna and Terry.

They sat in front of the fire for over an hour, talking and laughing. They teased Ron for stammering whenever Madam Rosmerta came near, and sympathised when Ernie admitted he'd picked Crabbe's name from the Sorting Hat. Harry's bad mood slowly dissipated, and all of a sudden he found himself caught up in the Christmas cheer.

As he relaxed further, Ginny touched his wrist. She smiled at him, silent apology for the arguments they'd been having for most of the week. He smiled back, but tensed when she shifted closer. He couldn't help it. The public shows of affection Ginny favoured always left him uncomfortable, which in turn annoyed her.

Hoping to avoid another conflict, he stood up quickly. "Anyone want another?" He gestured to the empty bottles of butterbeer around the table. Several people nodded and he headed for the bar with the order.

As he stood in line, Terry suddenly appeared at his side. "Lavender changed her mind," he said by way of explanation. "I said I'd get her one."

Harry nodded. "So are you two going out or something?"

Terry didn't answer. Didn't even seem to have heard the question. When he noticed Harry staring at him expectantly, he started. "Sorry, what?" Harry repeated what he'd said, and he shook his head distractedly. "Me and Lavender? No. No, she likes Ron." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Look. That's why she got rid of me, so she could pinch my seat..."

Harry looked, and sure enough, Lavender had positioned herself directly next to his friend, and was leaning pointedly in Ron's direction.

Harry chuckled. "Hermione won't be too happy."

Terry didn't smile, and once again Harry had the strange impression the other boy hadn't even heard him. "Are you okay?" he asked, frowning.

This time, Terry completely ignored the question, instead biting his lip and appearing to hesitate a moment. Then, quite out of the blue, he said, "Look, I meant to ask you... I don't suppose you have any muggle money with you?"

"_Muggle _money?"

"It-it's nothing terribly important. Just that Ernie was asking me what it looked like, and I never thought to bring any from home this year."

Harry shrugged. "Yeah. I guess there's some in my trunk somewhere."

Terry nodded, and it was the strangest thing, but he seemed almost... _unhappy_ that Harry had agreed. "Just a few coins. You'll get it back, of course. Thanks Harry..."

"It's fine."

They collected the butterbeers from the bar and headed back to the group, handing out the bottles. From the corner of his eye, Harry continued to watch Terry, wondering what on Earth _that _had been about. What was with the depressed mood all of a sudden? He didn't get it.

Sitting down, he rejoined the conversation. Almost immediately, Ginny nudged him and nodded towards her brother. Harry followed her gaze, and was amused to note the dopey expression Ron was wearing, obviously flattered by Lavender's attentions. The rest of the group had noticed it as well, and in their shared amusement he soon forgot about the strange conversation with Terry.

Nor did he pay much attention when the Ravenclaw boy left the group early, muttering only a half hearted excuse of not feeling well, before exiting the Three Broomsticks alone.

--

Later that night, Harry lay on his bed, half dangling over the side as he rooted through the trunk near his nightstand.

"What you looking for, mate?" Ron asked from the opposite bed.

"Money," Harry grunted, struggling to move a stack of books.

"As if you don't have enough of the stuff," the redhead muttered.

"Muggle money. Terry asked me to lend him some earlier..."

"Why?"

"Oh just to – Ah!" Triumphant, he hauled most of the contents of his trunk to the side, revealing a tiny pile of silver coins. He reached for them, but paused when an all too familiar scrap of paper caught his eye, folded neatly next to the coins.

He sighed resignedly. God, he was tired of reading the name Draco bloody Malfoy... He was going to end up–

His thought stopped midstream as inspiration abruptly struck him between the eyes. He laughed out loud at the idea, startling Ron.

"What's so funny?"

Grinning, Harry picked up the note and the stack of coins. He'd just received a flash of memory of the time the Dursleys had sent him a fifty pence piece as a present. And if _anyone_ was practiced in the art of sending gifts that said 'I hate you'loud and clear...

"I just decided what I'm getting Malfoy," he announced, voice brimming with malicious glee.

"You _what_?!"

Harry held up the silver coin. Terry's request had by now completely slipped his mind. He was far too busy being amused at the thought of how insulted Malfoy would be. Harry thought this idea had a rather appropriate irony to it.

Ron began to chuckle. "That's brilliant, mate. Bet if you asked him, the git would say his perfect gift would be money."

Harry nodded innocently. "Yep. Personally, I think I'm being very thoughtful. Dumbledore can't say I didn't try."

"And neither can Ginny," Ron pointed out.

Harry flipped the fifty pence into the air, pleased with himself. He was managing to play Dumbledore's stupid game, assuage Ginny, _and _insult Malfoy in one simple move. Yes, he was very pleased with himself indeed...

That night, he tore up the note yet again, for perhaps the hundredth time.

It did not reappear.


	3. Ghosts of Past and Present

**Sakuri: **Haha, I'll just apologise now for the Harry/Ginny stuff which is evidently disgusting you all (and me, don't worry). Sorry, just go with it xD This _will _be Harry/Draco in the end...

You might notice that I quoted one or two lines from Deathly Hallows in this chapter. They just fitted so well, and I figure the rules of plagiarism are a little blurry when it comes to fanfiction. Anyone spot them?

Also, one of the scenes _slightly _reflects a chapter from Deathly Hallows. It's supposed to, before anyone says I'm copying.

--

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 3**: Ghosts of Past and Present

--

Christmas arrived, and as usual Harry woke to a stack of presents at the foot of his bed. Mrs Weasley had sent him the customary knitted jumper and various tins of homemade food and sweets. In the twins' name there was a selection of the latest products from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Ron had bought various Quidditch paraphernalia, including a Chudley Cannons poster and a magazine detailing infamous Quidditch matches, famous players, and the records that had been set in the game. Hermione, of course, had given him a selection of books. Fiction, this year, from both the muggle world and the wizarding one. Hagrid had given him a batch of rockcakes, which Harry immediately deemed inedible, though he appreciated the sentiment. And Ginny...

Ginny had given him a photo frame. In it was a picture he'd never realised had even been taken. It looked like Colin's handiwork, and he wondered if Ginny had purposely commissioned him. The photo seemed to have been taken some time this winter, and portrayed them both standing in a scene of drifting snow, Hogwarts castle shown in the background and the snowman he'd built with her at the very edge of the frame. As he examined it, the photographed Ginny laughed as she dropped snow down the collar of the photographed Harry. She looked radiant, her skin rosy from the cold and her hair impossibly vibrant against the pristine white snow.

Looking at it, Harry felt something lurch inside him.

It was _not_ the good kind of lurch.

He bit his lip. Looking over at his nightstand, he saw the picture of his parents. It was uncanny how much that photo resembled the one in his hand, right down to the snow covered background. They even looked like the same _people_, for God's sake! It unsettled him, that Ginny might think of them as a couple as... permanent as his parents had been, because he wasn't at all sure if that was the case yet...

No, stop it, he told himself quickly. He was overreacting, surely. It was just a sentimental present from his girlfriend that he was reading too deeply into.

Maybe Hermione was right, and he really did have commitment issues...

--

At the breakfast table in the Great Hall, Ginny bounded over to him with a wide smile. He noticed instantly that she was proudly sporting the necklace he'd bought for her, a silver trinket with a deep blue stone that was a complimentary contrast to her red hair.

"Harry, I love it," she told him, once again insisting on a firm kiss.

He ducked his head as soon as she pulled away. "Uh, yeah. Good. I'm really glad." He flashed a quick smile. "I, uhm... never realised you took that picture." Inwardly, he cringed. Should he have said he loved her gift too?

She looked slightly taken aback. "Oh, yeah. You don't mind do you? I thought it was nice..."

Harry opened his mouth to answer, when Ron, sitting on his other side, suddenly grabbed his arm. "Harry. Harry, look."

He gestured excitedly at the windows, which was suddenly bombarded by the flock of owls delivering post and belated Christmas presents.

Harry grinned and waited for the show to start.

--

Draco had woken to a much smaller mound of presents than he was used to. That in itself was cause for alarm. He'd sifted through them, and found only a precious few from his parents, which felt _fundamentally _wrong. He'd opened them to find the usual new sets of robes, a couple of books and a box of the finest Honeydukes truffles.

Draco had felt at a loss. That was _it_?! Where was everything else?! The trinkets? The fancy stationary? The bottle of cologne he received once a year but never used? Where were the pointless and whimsical little gifts his mother picked out that – secretly – he liked the best?!

What the _hell _was going on at home that could possibly cause his parents to shuffle him to last priority?!

For a few brief moments that morning, he'd felt horribly emotional. It wasn't a sensation he often permitted, but he thought himself quite justified in this case. He felt as good as abandoned. Why _shouldn't _he be allowed to mope?

When dejection had slowly turned to anger at his parents, he'd shoved their presents to one side with the full intention of ignoring them. He'd moved onto the parcels sent by his friends instead.

Crabbe and Goyle had both given him large quantities of sweets and cakes. Hardly the most sentimental of gifts, but he appreciated their efforts.

Pansy had sent him a mirror, framed by braids of silver strands that spiralled across the edges of the glass. Emeralds had been artfully placed around the frame to look as if they'd been caught up in the twisted strands of metal. When he'd looked into it, it clearly showed him at his best, though he shrewdly doubted it was an entirely accurate reflection. She'd attached a note to it which read, _For your vanity, Draco dear. _He'd snorted in amusement and carefully set the mirror on his nightstand. Where was the harm in a little self-delusion occasionally?

Blaise's present was particularly interesting. He'd sent him an ornament of sorts, a model of a dragon. If Draco wasn't mistaken, it was specifically a model of an Antipodean Opaleye, a pearlescent scaled dragon with large multicolored eyes. Of course, being an ornament of the wizarding world, it was rather sentient. No sooner had Draco opened the box it came in and picked it up, the miniature dragon had stretched its wings luxuriously and yawned, revealing a forked tongue and miniscule fangs. Blinking, the dragon had turned to look up at him from where it sat in his palm, cocked its head, before spreading its tiny wings and gliding across to where he'd set down Pansy's mirror, where it had then curled up and gone to sleep again.

Draco was rather delighted with that present. Though it wasn't technically a _real _pet, the dragon was sentient enough to play the part. And the Opaleye species wasn't an aggressive kind of dragon. He'd even petted it before leaving his dorm room that morning.

Currently he sat at the Slytherin Table, attempting to eat breakfast. He wasn't very hungry; was in fact made vaguely nauseas by the holiday cheer that seemed to have infected everyone but him. He stabbed moodily at his eggs, chin resting in his palm.

It was then that the owl post arrived. Draco glanced up, unable to repress his own hopeful reaction. Maybe his mother had sent a letter that was just a little delayed. An explanation for their neglect, as he'd deemed it. Maybe another present...

But after a few moments of scanning the flutter of birds above his head, Draco saw that his father's eagle owl wasn't among them. He scowled and returned to glaring at his breakfast.

He certainly wasn't expecting one of the common school owls to skid to a halt in front of him, almost upsetting the milk jug with an errant wing. He raised an eyebrow at it and it stuck out a leg, tied to which was a small black box with a red ribbon.

Carefully, he accepted the box, trying to figure out who he hadn't yet received a gift from. But no, as far as he knew, all were present and accounted for. Which begged the question – who the hell, beyond the small circle of people who actually _liked_ him, would want to send him something for Christmas?!

Draco picked up the box cautiously. It weighed very little. A tag attached to it had his name printed in nondescript handwriting. It didn't say who it was from.

Draco scowled with sudden realisation. Oh dammit, not this _bloody _Secret Santa game... He'd almost forgotten its existence with his own dilemmas.

Sighing irritably, he roughly undid the ribbon that held the box closed and yanked off the lid, wondering who on Earth had actually had the nerve to drag him into this charade of a game. Bad enough that he'd eventually cracked and deigned to buy Corner a fine set of quills from Scrivenshaft's at Hogsmeade, driven to breaking point by Dumbledore's damn note...

Inside the box was a single silver coin. Draco frowned, peering closely at it. It had five sides and was engraved with the profile of an old woman he didn't recognise. What the...?

"Who sent you 50p?"

Draco started at the voice of one of his younger housemates, who had peered over his shoulder and caught sight of the box and its contents. "Fifty what?" he snapped, not understanding the term.

The boy gestured to the coin. "Fifty pence. It's muggle money."

"It's _what_?!" The blonde took his hands away from the box as if it would burn him. He stared at it incredulously, unable to comprehend why such a thing would be currently sat in front of him. _Muggle _money?! Who the hell would send _him _muggle money? And _why_?! Who would _dare_–

Draco stopped. His eyes narrowed.

Only three people in the school had the audacity to constantly insult and assail him in such a manner. Granger wasn't here. Weasley didn't do muggle. That meant–

His glare snapped towards the Gryffindor table, just in time to see Potter snorting with mirth into his pumpkin juice. Draco's fists clenched. Damn him...!

The Gryffindor didn't even bother to disguise his obvious guilt in the matter. He practically beamed back at Draco, eyes dancing with amusement. Next to him, Weasley was grinning like the idiot he was as the pair revelled in their little victory.

Draco sneered. He stood up stiffly, reached for the coin. As his fingers touched it, though, a jolt of pain sparked across his skin. He drew back. What was that? Had Potter put some kind of curse on the thing? Warily, he touched it again, but felt nothing this time. Just his imagination, then.

Snatching it up, he stalked along the length of Slytherin Table, heading for the exit of the Hall. On his way, he passed near to Weasley and Potter, and took the opportunity to fling the coin directly at the pair. Potter caught it with a Seeker's reflexes, and the pair only laughed harder.

Draco swept from the room in high dudgeon.

This was positively the _worst _Christmas _ever_!

--

Miles away, in Wiltshire, England, the Malfoy household bustled, though certainly not with Christmas cheer. Since Lucius's escape from incarceration, he had returned home to find his beloved family Manor overrun with Death Eaters. _Not_, he reminded himself once again, that this was a... 'bad' thing, per se. It was just... inconvenient.

Even that was being ungrateful. His Lord had freed him, was returning to power and bringing Lucius with him. It was a small favour, in return, to provide him with a headquarters. Wasn't that merely another sign of the high regard in which he held Lucius...?

But it made life hard. Narcissa was unhappy. She had never involved herself directly with the Death Eater movement; had hoped to avoid ever doing so. Suddenly her sanctuary was being invaded by their numbers. And though they treated her with due respect as Lucius's wife, they did not like her, nor she them. The Dark Lord did not wish her privy to the goings on of his followers without an oath of obedience, and Lucius knew that soon enough he would begin to pressure her to either take the Mark or leave the Manor.

Her activities were already restricted. She could not write out or receive much mail. Correspondence with the Malfoy family went through Lucius or not at all.

Draco was another point of contention. The Dark Lord had suggested more than once that the Malfoy heir should be about ready to follow in his father's footsteps and take the Mark. Meanwhile, Narcissa hissed in his ear that he was to keep Draco as far from all of this as possible, for as long as he could. He was at a loss, caught between two loyalties he'd hoped would never clash.

For the moment, he had managed a strenuous compromise, saying that he thought it best to wait until Draco reached the legal age of seventeen before the matter was considered. But he knew he was on shaky ground, which would soon begin to crumble beneath his feet...

His troubled thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping across the Italian marble floor as the last Death Eater joined the table. Lucius swiftly wiped his mind blank as the meeting began in earnest. With present company, one could not be too guarded with one's thoughts, Legilimency being so commonplace.

Lucius cast a glance around the people sat at his table. Closest to him was Severus, who stared intently at his hands, folded neatly before him. Obviously he, too, knew the dangers of Legilimency. There was Yaxley and Selwyn, covertly murmuring to each other directly across from him. Then came Macnair and Dolohov. The Carrow siblings and Evan Rosier. His sister in law Bellatrix sat with her husband, though her adoring gaze was solely for Voldemort. Of course, there was Pettigrew, the snivelling little rat...

No one looked up, to where the two inanimate figures were suspended above them.

The Dark Lord sat at the head of the table, regarding his followers over the tips of steepled fingers. Lucius had always thought his red eyes flat and impossible to read, much like those of the snake which currently wound itself around the legs and arms of one of Lucius's chairs, up onto the shoulders of its master.

Those red eyes suddenly turned Lucius's way, fixing on his with deadly intensity. "Still no Narcissa, I see."

Lucius tensed. "She does not wish to take the Mark, my Lord. You have forbidden anyone without it to join these meetings..."

"I know very well what I said. I had simply thought the... _lovely_ Narcissa Malfoy would be a little more grateful."

"M-my Lord...?"

"I have given you your liberty, Lucius. Is that not enough?" Lord Voldemort cocked his head slowly to one side. "Yet I have noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late... What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?"

"Nothing – nothing, my Lord!"

"Such _lies_, Lucius..." His voice was a sibilant hiss.

Knowing the danger he was in, Lucius said nothing, concentrating on keeping his thoughts absolutely blank. He could feel the mind of the Dark Lord reaching out to him, probing for secrets. He resisted the urge to look away, and in doing so incriminate himself even further.

Eventually, after what felt like forever, his Lord let him be, even issuing a whispery laugh. "No matter, Lucius. You needn't worry. I shall not be a burden to you for very much longer."

"My Lord, it is no burden –!"

Voldemort ignored him entirely, raising his voice to address the other Death Eaters gathered around the table. "We are on the verge of victory, my loyal friends. The Headmaster Dumbledore is oblivious to my agent inside his precious Hogwarts, who even now initiates the first stages of my plan."

Several of the Death Eaters glanced at each other, trying to determine who had known of such a plan. Clueless stare met clueless stare.

Voldemort chuckled again – a raspy, scratchy sound that held anything but humor. "No, I did not inform you of such a plan. I decided that subtlety was priority."

Next to Lucius, Severus leaned forward. "My Lord, why did you not at least tell me? I may have been able to help one of your servants inside the school, had I only known their identity and mission. And I assure you, I am more than capable of subtlety –"

"Ah yes, Severus, of course you are. I only feared your susceptibility to... slips of the tongue. Often into the wrong ears."

There was a tense silence about the room. Everyone present knew what their Lord was implying. Most of them, at some time or another, had questioned the Potion Master's loyalties, but none had dared to speak against him when Voldemort _still _seemed to favor him, regardless.

Voldemort continued, brushing aside the suspicions he had just raised as if they never were. "Besides, you are hearing the details now, Severus. All of you are."

Pointedly, he raised his gaze to the hanging bodies above them. Hesitantly, the Death Eaters followed his lead. Lucius squinted at the unconscious couple. A man and a woman hovered near the ceiling. He didn't recognize them in the least, and thought he really should have if they were anybody remotely important, such as from the Ministry.

"Meet Mr and Mrs Boot. No, Lucius, I'm afraid you won't recognize them." Lucius flushed, realizing his thoughts must have been more audible than he'd intended. "They are muggles."

A murmur of surprise and curiosity went around the table. "Muggles, my Lord?" someone spoke up. "Of what use could they possibly be?"

Voldemort gazed up at the pair thoughtfully. From somewhere he had pulled his wand, and was now twirling it between the long, deft fingers of his right hand. "Oh, no use at all, in and of themselves. They _are_, however, rather good incentive for my... agent."

Severus was the first to understand. He had gone tense in his chair. "A student," he murmured, barely audible. "You're using a muggleborn student."

"Very good, Severus! You see, I needed someone easily manipulated. And, of course, close to Harry Potter. Who better than one of those malleable little weaklings who _dare_ to call themselves witches and wizards..." For a brief moment, their Lord's voice had become the harsh hiss of his hatred. He paused, to regain himself. "My plan was a simple one. As you may or may not know, the... connection I had once shared with Harry Potter, by means of that detestable scar, has been broken."

In truth, Voldemort did not know how the boy had managed to shut it down. He wondered if Harry himself even _knew _what he had done. He might have suspected Dumbledore had a hand in the matter, or even Severus with his skill in Occlumency... but it somehow seemed doubtful. The last use the connection had ever been was the night in the Department of Mysteries, when he had so masterfully crafted and sent to Harry the vision of his beloved godfather, the blood traitor Sirius Black. It had succeeded so well, once again proving the advantage the connection provided...

But in the days after the debacle at the Ministry, Voldemort had reached out to the boy, only to find... nothing. Harry had quite thoroughly closed himself off, and in doing so had shut down the link. Voldemort suspected it was all quite accidental on the boy's part, but it was a loss he wanted to rectify.

"In recent times," he continued, regaining the thread of his explanation, "I have found a way to forge a new connection. And this one shall all be on my terms."

"H-how is that possible, my Lord?" Severus asked, perhaps a little too eagerly.

Voldemort let his slip pass. "A third person, Severus. A third person who is connected to me, and who is also connected to Harry Potter. He will be the medium through which I regain access."

"Your agent..."

"Ah yes, young Terrance. He was most reluctant, as you can imagine. Hence, the incentive." He looked again at the suspended muggles.

"Why not use an Imperius Curse?" Lucius asked, curious.

"Imperius has been known to fail, or be detected at the most critical of moments, Lucius. I couldn't take that chance... And, in all honesty, it is simply more enjoyable this way." He smiled, and it was a cruel thing to behold. Then, waving his hand dismissively, he said, "That is all. You may go." Lucius sprang to his feet, eager to catch Severus on the way out and talk with him.

"Severus, Lucius, if you would remain please."

The two froze as the other Death Eaters rose from their chairs and filed out of the room, casting curious glances at the pair as they passed. They sat still and obedient, waiting to hear their master's intent.

When the room was empty of all but those three – not counting the unconscious muggles – Voldemort turned first to Snape. "I must warn you, Severus. By the time you return to Hogwarts, any efforts to prevent my plan will be in vain. The curse was cast days ago, and by this time Potter will have sealed his own fate, though he is no doubt unaware of it. In other words, Severus, _do not bother fighting me on this_."

The Potions Master bowed his head submissively, dark hair falling forward and concealing his face. Not by accident, Lucius thought shrewdly.

"And you, Lucius. I begin to question your loyalty. Why have you not yet presented to me your son? Why do you continue to allow your wife's defiance?"

Lucius paled. "My loyalty has _never _wavered, my Lord!" he protested, able to hear the edge of desperation in his own voice. "I... I wait only for Draco to be... fully matured. So that he may be of most use to you."

Voldemort sneered. "Is that what you tell yourself, Lucius?"

"It is the truth –!"

"Leave me, both of you," their Lord snapped. Both left hurriedly, understanding the warning that had been issued.

--

Draco did not sleep well that night. He'd felt apathetic and miserable all day, and now that night had fallen he felt only restless. He tossed and turned for hours, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable, to feel tired. Nothing worked. He stared at the green canopy above his bed until his eyes hurt. He watched the small, faintly glowing Opaleye pad across his mirror, which seemed to have become its nest. He ended up hiding his head beneath the pillow to keep from visual distractions. After that, there was only his own thoughts to keep him awake...

He felt... He felt, strangely, as if he was missing something, but couldn't for the life of him pinpoint what. This wasn't anything to do with his parents, or not being home for the holidays. No, he felt like something should be _present_, right next to him, but it wasn't... The sensation was disorientating, especially since he had no idea what it meant. When he tried to identify the thing that was missing, his thoughts slipped evasively through his mental fingers.

The entire experience was very frustrating, to say the least.

When he _finally _fell asleep, it was sometime around 4 in the morning, and even then he couldn't rest. Dreams sought him out, playing through his mind and making peace unobtainable.

They were strange dreams. Fragmented. Almost distant. Flashes of images he didn't recognise. People he didn't recognise. He dreamed of a woman, with fabulous red hair... and eyes... verdant eyes, so intense... He dreamed of a man who adored her, who danced in the snow with her... They changed then, ever so slightly. Once again a girl with red hair, but this time it was the boy with the intense eyes...

Draco woke with a gasp. He looked around wildly, wondering what had woken him with such a jolt.

It had not yet grown light outside, he could see through the gap in the curtains. He'd slept about two hours. No one else stirred so early in the morning. He could see nothing that could be responsible for causing his heart to beat so rapidly, or the vague sense of unease that hovered over him like a miasma.

He remembered nothing of the dream.

--

That same night, Harry slept soundly. He fell asleep at midnight, after an evening spent in the Gryffindor common room, the fire roaring as they showed off the gifts they'd received, ate the extra food Dobby had brought them from the kitchens and tried to figure out who each Secret Santa was. When Harry's present had turned out to be a novelty hat complete with animated lion's head, it hadn't been difficult to identify Luna as the gift giver. She did, after all, possess her very own roaring hat, and insisted they would both have to wear them at the next game or celebration.

Ron had told Ginny the story of what Harry had 'gifted' Malfoy with, and even she'd been forced to chuckle. Ron himself had asked if he could keep the coin, wanting a memento of Malfoy's indignity. Laughing, Harry had handed it over.

Ginny had spent most of the night perched near him, either on the arm of the squishy chair he occupied, or on the floor in front of him, leaning back against his knee. She was constantly touching the necklace he'd given her, and showed it to anyone who'd look.

When he went to bed, it was with a feeling of sated exhaustion. He had no trouble drifting off into pleasant, untroubled sleep.

It was only during the early hours of the morning that he began to dream. He dreamt of his parents, as they were in the photograph next to his bed. He saw them dance in the snow, and his imagination provided the sound of his mother's laughter...

But then they turned into himself and Ginny. The resemblance was so striking – and for some reason he couldn't stand that fact.

He woke abruptly, the images fresh in his mind. He squeezed closed his eyes and shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the dream. It didn't work.

Telling himself he was being stupid, he lay back down intending to go back to sleep. Turning on his side, he was met with the sight of the two photo frames.

Reaching out, he took hold of the one showing himself and Ginny and laid it face down.


	4. Oversights

**Sakuri: **Haha, I'm starting to feel like there should be one of those guys shuffling the three cups in the background, shouting, "Keep your eyes on the coin, everybody! Keep your eyes on the coin..."

But yeah, let me know if I've made things a bit too complicated. I'm not really sure if that's the case or not...

--

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 4**: Oversights

--

The next morning, Harry had barely woken up, and was just wandering tiredly down the stairs towards the Great Hall when Terry found him. The Ravenclaw boy hurried over to him, and once again Harry noticed that there was something off about him. He seemed pale, and more than a little edgy.

"Harry. Uhm, it's been a while since I asked. Have you... have you got the coins?"

Harry blinked. "Oh. Oh, yeah. I picked them up this morning. Hang on..." He began rummaging through his pockets, finally extracted them. "Here you go."

Terry all but snatched them, before frantically examining them.

He froze. "Where's the fifty pence?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I don't have one."

"You do!" Wide eyes fixed on him. "I mean... you must..."

"Uhm... well, I lost it actually..." Harry said, inwardly wincing at the white lie. He felt a bit guilty having given the coin in question to Ron, since Terry had asked first.

"But... I... You... lost it? You _lost _it?!"

The Gryffindor was beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable. "Sorry... Terry, are you sure you're alright?"

The other boy had gone white, even looked as if he was about to throw up. Instinctively, Harry reached out to steady him.

Someone else beat him to it as a hand closed on Terry's shoulder. Both boys jumped, looking up to see McGonagall. The Scotswoman had never looked so stern, Harry thought distantly.

"Mr Boot," she snapped, voice dangerously quiet. "If you'd come with me, please."

"But –"

"_Now_, Mr Boot."

Harry felt extremely confused as he watched the two walk away. Something was definitely wrong with Terry, but damned if he could figure out what... He wondered why McGonagall had looked so angry.

For the moment, he shrugged the questions off in favour of breakfast. Making the rest of his way to the Great Hall, he entered with a yawn. As he headed for his own seat, he passed by the Hufflepuff table and paused a moment.

"Hey Ernie."

The Hufflepuff boy looked up in surprise at his voice, then smiled. "Hello Harry."

The Gryffindor pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "I just saw Terry. Gave him the coins you were asking about. Think he's a bit... preoccupied at the moment though."

Ernie was frowning. "What are you talking about?"

Harry shrugged. "Y'know... The muggle money?"

"_Muggle _money? Harry, what would I want with that...?"

"I..." The Gryffindor stopped. "You didn't ask Terry...?"

Ernie shook his head.

"Oh. Uh, never mind then... I guess..."

As he walked away, Harry could feel a headache coming on. What the _hell _was going on? Why did he feel like he was missing something? And _what _was Terry playing at?!

Shaking his head, he cast a swift glance over at the Slytherin table. Malfoy was sat with his chin in his hands, staring dully at a bowl of cereal. To his surprise, Harry noted dark circles under the blonde's eyes.

And what was so damn important about that bloody fifty pence...?

--

Minerva led the Ravenclaw boy into the Headmaster's office, where Dumbledore and Severus awaited them. She had not let go of him since finding him with Potter, but forcefully guided him along corridors and stairways. He had started to cry as they came in sight of the Gargoyle statue.

The Headmaster looked up as they entered, his blue eyes sad and tired. It had been hard, at first, to believe the story Severus had returned to him with. He couldn't stand to think of one of his students in such a position – and all without him noticing.

He stood slowly. "Mr Boot, if you would please raise your left sleeve."

The boy didn't move, and Minerva felt his shoulder tremble under her hand.

Dumbledore sighed. "Terry..."

Shaking, the teenager reached down and rolled up the sleeve of his jumper. And there, for all to see emblazoned on his forearm, was the snake and skull of Voldemort's Dark Mark. Minerva couldn't repress a small sound of distress, and Severus swore quietly.

Terry sucked in a shuddering breath and swayed back against her. Hurriedly, she conjured a chair and sat him down, where he immediately hid his face with his hands. "I'm _sorry_! I'm s-so sorry! I d-didn't have a ch-choice! He was going to k-kill them...!"

The Headmaster moved forward and kneeled in front of the distraught boy. "We know, Terry. We know. But you have to tell us _exactly _what you've done."

The boy shook his head. "Nothing," he sniffed. "I haven't done anything..."

Standing at Dumbledore's shoulder, Severus scowled impatiently. "We know about the curse. We know you were supposed to target Potter."

Terry nodded in admittance, wiping a hand across his eyes. "I was. But it went wrong. He... You Know Who... told me to have it done by now. I-I was supposed to cast the spell on something of Harry's, but then I had to get Harry to give it to me. He had to willingly _give_ it, he said. But I waited too long. I didn't want... Harry's a friend, y'know? And he's _Harry_. I couldn't..." Terry shook his head wretchedly. "But he said he'd kill them if I didn't. So I asked Harry. But... but he said he'd _lost _it! He'd _lost _it, and it's all gone wrong...!"

The adults cast glances at each other. Dumbledore slowly leaned forward. "Terry. Slow down. What are you saying? Do you mean that the curse will no longer work?"

"I-it can't. It's supposed to affect the first person he _gives _it to, but if he's lost it..."

"Lost what? What did you cast the spell on?"

The Ravenclaw waved a hand. "Just a muggle coin. But he doesn't have it anymore..."

Severus frowned. "The muggle coin. Why did you use that? Does it have any significance?"

Terry sniffed. "No. I just had to pick something he wasn't likely to give to anyone else. I mean, what was he going to use muggle money for?" He let out a humourless laugh. "That worked well..."

"Terry, how did you cast the spell? When?"

"I... I was in the Gryffindor common room a few days ago. I went into his dorm room. The coins were the first thing I found in his trunk."

"Yes, but _how_?" Dumbledore pressed. "This sounds like _very _dark magic. Beyond the capabilities of the average Sixth Year..."

"I... I just had to find something to use. You Know Who cast the curse... th-through that." He looked down at his arm and the tattoo that marred his flesh, shuddering at the memory of the experience. "I don't know what it was or what it did."

Dumbledore rose to his feet. "I am sorry Terry, but you must know you cannot be permitted to remain in the school."

Terry bowed his head, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.

"Minerva, take him to Alastor. He should be kept safe."

She nodded, guessing what the Headmaster intended. As both an Order member and an Auror, Alastor Moody would be able to arrange protective custody for the boy, as well as keep word of his actions quiet. The Order would therefore have the first chance of questioning him under Veritaserum, to make sure he really hadn't completed the curse, and that there was nothing else he knew.

She touched his shoulder. "Mr Boot..."

"W-wait. What about my parents?" The boy looked frantically between one adult and the next. "Please. He still has them. They won't know what's going on. _Please_, you have to do something!"

The Headmaster regarded him sadly. From what Severus had said, there was very little chance of saving the boy's parents. As the Headquarters of the Dark Lord, Malfoy Manor was under almost as many wards as Hogwarts, and guarded constantly by Death Eaters. And no doubt Tom would soon take his anger out on his muggle prisoners when he found out his curse had failed...

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm sorry, Terry..."

The boy shook and cried again. Moving swiftly, Minerva bundled him towards the fireplace, where she would Floo him to Grimmauld Place, headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix.

When she had left, Dumbledore moved back to his desk and lowered himself into his seat. He looked tired and worn. "Ah, Severus... How has all this happened right under my nose?"

"The Dark Lord did not tell anyone, Albus... Of course, I would have tried to help earlier, if I'd known..."

"I know, my boy. It's just... Do you realise, the only reason we have avoided complete disaster is simple luck? What if Harry had activated the curse? A curse we know _nothing_ about!"

"He said it was to establish a 'connection'..."

"Too vague, too vague..." The Headmaster shook his head. "We have allowed Tom to be one step ahead of us, Severus, and in doing so we came far too close to losing this war before it has even begun."

Severus said nothing. He was busy wondering how he would explain to his Lord why the plan had failed, especially when he'd been specifically warned not to intervene...

"We have been fortunate," Dumbledore went on. "We must make sure such oversights do not happen again."

The Potions Master nodded. "Indeed."

--

Draco was unhappy. He'd had an almost constant headache since midway through the day before. He hadn't slept. He hadn't received _any _word from his parents, and he was getting worried. And he _still _had that niggling feeling that something was... missing. What the hell was that about?!

He missed having real company, not just Crabbe and Goyle. He was only halfway through the Christmas break and was already going mad without Pansy and Blaise. That, in turn, made him feel pathetic for being lonely.

Bored, he had decided to take his Nimbus 2005 out into the skies. Walking out into one of the castle courtyards, he'd mounted the broom and spiralled up into the air. Cold wind sliced through his clothing, biting into his flesh and pulling at his hair. Almost immediately, his hands turned numb on the broom handle, and he was forced to squint against the drifting snowflakes.

Draco gritted his teeth and flew higher and faster. He hoped the freezing winter chill and the exhilaration of flight would refresh him, clear his head of the dull ache that plagued him and the malaise of discontent.

Up he went, until the clouds began to gather around him, and the tears from his watering eyes began to freeze. He gasped in the biting air and relinquished control of the broom. In freefall, he saw whirling images of the castle towers, the snow covered trees of the Forest, and the iced lake.

Only at the last moment did he pull up, yanking hard on the handle and all but screeching to a halt mere metres from the ground. His stationary state didn't last long. As soon as he'd regained his bearings, he was off again, zipping away across the white landscape. He kept to the remote areas, where he could be certain he would not be spotted, and would not be in danger of crashing into some unsuspecting student out on the grounds. Zigzagging along the hills and dips of the field, snow spraying up in his wake, he flew until his breath came hard and fast and a pain in his side forced him to slow.

The headache had not dissipated in the least. Nor had his depression.

Frustrated, he backflipped higher into the air, and at a more leisurely pace began flying back towards the castle.

It was later than he'd thought by the time he'd finished his antics. Past curfew, he realised, after casting a quick TempusCharm. Changing his angle, he headed for the towers of the castle, where he landed on the observation platform used during Astronomy lessons. Shouldering his broom, he slipped quietly into the tower and began descending the spiralling staircase, hoping Filch wasn't around to catch him sneaking in.

He was only about two levels down the tower – not even halfway – when he first heard them. Draco froze as he recognised the soft sounds drifting up to meet him, and fought the urge to swear. Bloody couples in the bloody Astronomy tower. Just once, couldn't they find somewhere _else _to get each other off?!

Hovering near the inside wall of the spiralling stairs, Draco slowly crouched and tried to peer down at the lower level without being seen himself. It was an awkward angle, unfortunately, and he had to crane his neck to get any decent view.

Where the stairs levelled out to a small landing, two students were obviously midway into their make-out session. The girl sat on the ledge of a narrow window, and her partner stood before her. Unseen in his hiding place, Draco pretended to gag and rolled his eyes. He took out his wand and pondered what spell to use that would successfully disrupt the pair.

"Harry..."

The whisper made him freeze. He squinted at the couple a second time, and belatedly realised who he was spying on. Draco almost gagged for real, then. Oh bloody hell, he was watching Potter and his little Weasel girlfriend go at it!

The Slytherin voice in his head was screaming at the top of its voice for him to hex them or look away or both. But he was transfixed with a horror that was akin to watching a train wreck: it was just so morbidly fascinating.

As he watched in this state of vague revulsion, Weasley took hold of Potter's hand, where it had innocently been resting on her arm, and moved it towards the hem of her sweater. Draco's eyes bugged and he fought not to make some strangled noise of disgust. _Eeeeew_! This was beginning to verge on the taboo concept of Weasley-sex. Draco cringed. Good Lord, how had he ended up in _this _unique position...?!

And then, abruptly, Potter backed off. He snatched his hands back from beneath her clothing and held them up as though in surrender, while the redhead stared at him in confusion. "Look... Ginny..." the Gryffindor whispered, and Draco knew the beginning of a rejection when he heard one. Well, _this _had suddenly become interesting...

"I... I just thought..."

"I don't... I mean, I can't..." Potter was beginning to stammer, even backing away, and his girlfriend was looking more than a little annoyed. Draco bit back a chuckle. He supposed it must be galling to have your boyfriend _clearly _demonstrate his aversion to touching the 'good bits'.

"Harry, if you're not ready..."

"It's just... There's something I need to ask –"

And oh, Draco would have just loved to hear the rest of that explanation, but unfortunately he could no longer contain his reaction. He began to laugh, slowly and quietly and cruelly. Potter and Weasley sprung apart and whirled in his direction as Draco casually descended the stone stairs. He knew he looked the picture of nonchalance, broom balanced over his shoulder and pale hair windswept, especially compared with Potter's guilty, self-conscious blush, and he knew then he had the power in the situation.

"Go away, Malfoy," the Gryffindor ground out, obviously furious that his rival had witnessed the deeply personal and frankly embarrassing moment.

"Why?" Draco questioned innocently. "I'm _obviously _not interrupting anything..."

"Just go fu–"

Ginny interrupted before the obscenity could be voiced. "You've been out past curfew," she accused, looking at the broom he held.

Draco examined his nails. "Yes, well, we all have our night time activities – don't we Potter?" He flashed a smile, thoroughly enjoying the discomfort of the other boy. Before either had the chance to respond, he sauntered closer, narrowing his eyes at the Weaselette and whispering confidentially, "If I were you, and _my _boyfriend spooked at the thought of a bra strap – well. I'd have to start wondering if he was batting for the other team, so to speak..."

He honestly hadn't thought much of his throw-away innuendo. It was merely the first thing to pop into his head that he thought might rattle the clingy Weasley and affront Potter's male pride.

He had _not _expected Potter to turn a dramatic shade of pale. Ginny, standing in front of the boy and facing Draco, was oblivious to his reaction, but the Slytherin saw it all too clearly. Draco's eyebrows shot up, and in turn Potter went even paler, if possible.

"Merlin, I'm sorry!" the blonde gushed gleefully. "Was... was that supposed to be a secret?"

"Sod _off_, Malfoy!" the Gryffindor growled, futilely.

Draco could almost _feel _the alarm radiating off Potter. In fact... Yes, he _could _feel it. Draco didn't think about this too much at the time, only revelled in the sensation. Potter's heart was beating with the surprise of what Ginny had wanted, then Draco's sudden appearance, and the fright of his accusation. His panic and anger seemed practically tangible to the Slytherin, who grinned viciously in response.

Oh _this _almost made up for the crappy Christmas he'd been having so far...

And then, Draco had a split second warning of what was about to happen when the sense of alarm changed rapidly to stony hatred. He blinked, right before Potter's fist collided with his jaw.

Abruptly, he was falling backwards, and reached out to catch hold of the Gryffindor's shirt on instinct, dragging his rival down on top of him. Potter landed with a grunt, but quickly recovered enough to hit Draco again. Somewhere in the distance, Weasley was shrieking at them to stop, but neither paid her much attention.

The Slytherin, knowing he was outweighed and outmatched by the taller Gryffindor, resorted to the only thing available to him: he brought his knee up, hard, between the other boy's legs.

Hovering over him, green eyes widened in wordless pain, and Potter seemed to be stricken temporarily immobile by the blow. Seizing his advantage, Draco stretched to one side and grasped the handle of his Nimbus, before swinging the broom into the Gryffindor's ribs.

Potter was knocked off him with the impact, and Draco scrambled to his feet, panting. He could taste blood. His shoulder hurt where he'd fallen on it awkwardly. His breath came too fast and too sharp.

And he didn't remember feeling this good in the last week.

Movement at the corner of his eye snapped him to attention and he spun on Ginny Weasley, wand automatically in hand, just in time to cast a Disarming Spell in her direction. She glared helplessly as her own wand clattered down the stairs behind her. He debated hexing her – just for good measure – but reluctantly discarded the idea as more trouble than it was worth.

Wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand, he eyed the red stain it left critically. Then, with a final sneer at Potter's prone form, he stalked past them both and continued his way down the Astronomy Tower.

Even after reaching the Slytherin dorm rooms, Draco could still feel the high of exhilaration. Unable to consider sleep, he paced his bedroom restlessly, wand in hand and itching to be used. He wanted... he wanted to go back. He wanted to do that _again_, feel the rush of excitement and rage that had taken him when he and Potter fell. Never before had a scrap between himself and the Gryffindor felt so... satisfying.

It didn't occur to Draco to think there was anything strange about this reaction.

When he eventually calmed and slid under the green quilt of his bed, he almost instantly fell into satisfied sleep, headache forgotten about and no longer haunted by the feeling that something was missing.


	5. Deteriorate

**Sakuri: **Lol, I have to say you came up with quite a few suggestions for which lines I quoted. More than I'd been aware of actually (oops) xD To satisfy your curiosity, the only ones I _intentionally _quoted were these:

_**Voldemort**_: "I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you? But I have noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late… What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?"

_**Lucius**_: "Nothing – nothing, my Lord!"

_**Voldemort**_: "Such _lies_, Lucius."

It's a conversation from Deathly Hallows during a similar Death Eater meeting.

--

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 5**: Deteriorate

--

When Draco woke the next morning, he wondered what he'd been thinking. The bruise on his jaw and the split lip were proof of his stupidity. Fighting with Potter? Especially when he'd been on his own and his rival had had the Weaselette as back up. Although she hadn't quite managed it last night, he recalled that she had some nasty spells in her arsenal. And Potter could have pulverised him in a physical fight if he hadn't got a couple of lucky shots in early.

He'd gotten off lucky, and he knew it.

No doubt the Gryffindor would be looking to get his own back, however. Potter didn't do losing.

Draco decided he was going to lie low for a little while. He told himself it wasn't cowardice. It _wasn't_. He was just being prudent. Why get himself into more trouble than necessary...?

And so, for the remaining week of the holiday, Draco spent the majority of his time either in the Slytherin common room or the library – the only two places he could be certain the Gryffindor wouldn't be. In a matter of days he finished all the homework due in at their return to lessons. After that, with nothing to do, he'd begun to read the books his parents had sent him. He suspected his mother had picked them out, their topic being fictional stories. Lucius encouraged only magical research – often the obscure and in-depth kind.

But it wasn't long before his ill health began to return. Draco noticed the headache first. A mild irritant to begin with, it became a constant pounding by the second day, and a full blown migraine by the third. Unable to read, he'd retreated to his bedroom, drawn the curtains and kept a cold cloth over his eyes until he felt somewhat better. It was the treatment his mother used to give him as a child.

When he was once again able to venture from his curtained bed, he'd made his way down to the common room where he was met with the worried duo Crabbe and Goyle.

"A-are you okay now Draco?" Gregory had asked.

He'd nodded wordlessly.

"You don't look it," Vincent stated in his blunt way, earning himself a narrow eyed glare.

Draco ignored him. He'd looked in the mirror on his nightstand before he left his room, and he looked perfectly fine. Remarkably good, in fact, for someone just risen from the sickbed.

He ignored, too, the fact that his hand shook ever so slightly the next time he reached for his book. He ignored the fact that he could no longer seem to manage staying awake after 8 o' clock each night, and even then was always tired.

But when it came to the end of the week, and he'd spent New Year's Eve being sick into the Slytherin toilets, even Draco's sense of denial was beginning to wane.

Still, he told himself, it was just a winter bug going around. He'd be fine...

--

As if from a great distance, Draco could hear voices. They drifted in and out of his hearing, and seemed vaguely familiar.

"...Draco...? ...in here?"

"Look... sleeping... Draco...?"

Draco winced at the disruption to his rest, and turned away from the voices.

"Wake up." Someone shook him roughly, and the pain in his head flared. Draco saw spots. He curled away from the invasive touch.

The voices got louder, then, shrill with a sudden air of worry.

"...Merlin...! He's not..."

"...look at him..."

"...fever..."

"...Hospital Wing..."

--

All students had returned to Hogwarts with the end of the holidays. Hermione met them with thanks for the gifts they'd owled her, and stories of what she'd done during her time with her family. They returned their various anecdotes and quickly caught up.

Sat at the Gryffindor table for dinner, Harry felt much more at home now that the rest of his housemates surrounded him. He liked the noise and warmth of the Great Hall during meal times. It reminded him of the chaos at the Burrow.

As he was tucking into the roast potatoes, listing to Hermione's story about her latest family gathering, Seamus chose that moment to scoot down the bench so that he was next to Harry.

"Guess what," the Irish boy challenged, before continuing without waiting for an answer. "I just heard Malfoy got dragged to the Hospital Wing. Unconscious or something."

Hermione looked surprised. "I missed more than I thought."

But Harry and Ron were looking just as clueless as her. "Why, what's wrong with him now?"

Ron snorted. "Probably just another cry for attention. You know what he's like."

Seamus shrugged. "Not sure. The Slytherins looked a bit panicky to be honest. Closest to human emotion Pansy Parkinson's ever been." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "And no one can really remember seeing him most of this holiday."

Harry snorted. "I wish..." he muttered, barely audible. "Least he's out of the bloody way in the Hospital Wing."

Hermione raised a disapproving eyebrow at him. "That's a bit... vicious."

Harry made no response. He was still seething over his last encounter with Malfoy, and what the Slytherin had accused him of. What Malfoy had seen. He cringed, for perhaps the thousandth time. Ever since it had happened, he'd been waiting for the prat to make the incident public knowledge. He'd half expected him to take out an ad in the Daily Prophet...

Maybe Malfoy _was_ ill, if he hadn't yet found the time to humiliate him.

Harry carefully avoided thinking about the details of the last fight between them. For example, he tried not to think about Malfoy's innuendoes. Or his own panicked reaction to them. He didn't think about his own inability to touch Ginny. He didn't think about any of it...

--

Draco woke to the taste of potions. He thought he recognised the flavour of Pepper-Up, but instinctively knew he'd been given more than just that.

The Slytherin opened his eyes to find himself staring at an eggshell blue ceiling. He sighed. So someone had taken him to Madam Pomfrey then.

"Blaise, he's awake."

Draco turned at the sound of Pansy's voice. Suddenly she was leaning over him, her loose blond ringlets tickling his cheek. "What the _hell _is wrong with you?!" she demanded, with all the sympathy she was renowned for.

He managed a smile. "Lovely to see you too."

She scowled and hit his arm. "I don't _believe _how stupid you are sometimes, to let yourself get into that state without going to the Hospital Wing."

Blaise came to stand by her side, cocking his head at the prone Draco. "She's right, you know. Specially since Crabbe and Goyle weren't going to do anything without a direct instruction."

Draco shifted so that he was sitting up, propped against a stack of pillows Pansy hurried to arrange for him. "I didn't think I was that sick," he admitted. "I looked alright –"

"You look like crap," Blaise told him levelly.

Draco scowled indignantly. He most certainly did not! No matter how sick he got, he was always the image of Malfoy perfection. He'd checked that morning! He'd...

Draco cringed. He'd used Pansy's Christmas present, the enchanted mirror. Of course it showed him looking fine and healthy.

At that moment, the resident mediwitch bustled into the room. She immediately spotted Draco sitting up and hurried over. In less than a minute, she had swept up Pansy and Blaise, reminding them that she'd only promised they could stay until their friend awoke, and ushered them promptly out of the Hospital Wing.

Returning to his bedside, she regarded him severely. "You, Mr Malfoy, should have come to me much earlier."

"I –"

"Do you know how many potions I've had to pour into you to get you back to this condition?!"

Mutely, Draco shook his head. Madam Pomfrey could intimidate even him.

She huffed and shook her head. "_Honestly_. And I've _still _no idea what you've caught..."

He blinked. "So... you've not cured me?"

"No, Mr Malfoy, unfortunately I haven't. I've treated your symptoms. I've made you feel better. I have _not _figured out what's wrong. These things are usually so _simple_." She shook her head, obviously frustrated at not being able to solve the problem. "I don't understand why my diagnosis spells aren't working..."

Draco raised an eyebrow. He'd never heard of Madam Pomfrey not being able to cure something.

"I also noticed an unknown magical signature attached to you..."

"Magical signature?"

"Yes. I can't seem to identify it, although I must say it doesn't seem malignant in nature on first inspection. I have to ask – to the best of you knowledge, are you currently under any kind of enchantment or spell?"

Draco gave her a deadpan stare. "Don't you think I'd know if I was?"

She returned his unimpressed look. "Well I don't know, Mr Malfoy. You didn't seem to know you were ill, despite the overwhelming evidence."

The Slytherin glared and ground out, "No, I am not under any kind of spell."

She didn't look convinced. "Well, even so, you understand it's rather suspicious. Having never examined you magical aura before today, I have no way of knowing how long it's been present. There's a possibility that it's simply a rather unusual part of your magical make-up, and has no debilitating effects whatsoever. However, to be safe, I'd like you to stay here for observation."

"Observation?" Draco echoed. "For how long?"

"However long it takes," she answered brusquely.

"But... what about classes?"

"You may have your work sent to you."

"But –"

"No buts. I couldn't release you in good conscience. You're still sick and in possession of a mysterious magical signature."

"But I feel fine!" Draco insisted, knowing as he did so that he was lying. He felt sick and tired and was still plagued by that troubling sensation that he was missing something. He wondered idly if this was another symptom. Maybe he was delusional as well, and just hadn't noticed.

But this was why he couldn't stand the thought of remaining in the Hospital Wing. He'd been on his own for the last two weeks – for Christmas, of all times – and he'd been hoping he would feel halfway normal when his friends were back around him.

Now he wouldn't even get that.

Madam Pomfrey appeared to be regarding him with genuine sympathy. She sighed. "I am sorry. But it's for your own good." To his surprise, she reached out and squeezed his shoulder, before bustling away in her usual manner.

Draco scowled at the far wall. Once again, he was stuck on his own.

Just his luck, he decided bitterly.

--

Each day, Draco downed potions designed to bring down his fever, settle his stomach, dull the pain between his eyes, and boost his flagging energy. And each day, he refused to let on to the mediwitch that their effects were lessening. He felt progressively drained, no matter what medication she gave him. He made sure not to tell her this, though, or she'd _never _let him go.

Pansy and Blaise came to visit him whenever they could. They brought him the gossip he was missing, which he liked, and the homework assignments he owed, which he didn't. Occasionally, Crabbe and Goyle would join them, although they were of less entertainment value. Pansy would sit in the chair next to him and chatter incessantly about the latest events in Slytherin or what new act of stupidity Gryffindor had committed in Potions. Blaise would lounge on the foot of his bed and stare quietly at the ceiling. Draco suspected he was busy tuning the blond girl out.

But his friends' presence did nothing for his health, and by now he was beginning to feel more than a little worried. At first, he'd wondered if his late night flight across the snow covered grounds of Hogwarts had left him with a case of pneumonia or something similar.

But Madam Pomfrey would have caught something so obvious. And her mention of the unknown 'magical signature' alarmed him. Draco had no idea what she meant by the term, and no idea if it was serious or not.

He'd debated writing home to his parents of the unknown sickness, but decided against it. He didn't want to worry his mother, or have his father kick up a fuss about the healthcare at Hogwarts. Even so, Madam Pomfrey had reluctantly informed him that if he didn't start showing signs of improvement soon she would be forced to contact his family. He could tell she didn't want to. Very few people wanted anything to do with Lucius Malfoy, especially after his stint in Azkaban, and he just hoped her distaste would keep her at bay a little longer.

Draco positively willed himself to get better. But no. In fact, his hospital stay got even worse on the fifth day...

There Draco was, innocently sitting in bed as he wrote up his Transfiguration essay, when who else but Potter and Weasley (the male one) entered the ward. Potter was clutching his wrist, which even from a distance looked swollen and discoloured. As the mediwitch hurried towards them, the Gryffindor hissed through gritted teeth, "Quidditch accident. Think it's broken."

She tutted and moved him to sit on one of the beds, ushering the redhead away with a scathing, "I think he'll live without you for a little while, Mr Weasley." Turning back to Potter, she squinted at his injury for a moment before poking it with her wand. He flinched. "Yes, definitely broken," she diagnosed. "This is the second time you've been in here with broken bones after a Quidditch accident. Last time it was the ribs..."

Draco's interest sparked. He would have bet good money that Potter's first injury had definitely been from a broom, but not falling off one. Had he really broken Potter's rib when they'd fought in the Astronomy Tower? And, more importantly, had Potter really covered for him? If so, _why_?! Draco wouldn't have, if the positions were reversed...

An idea occurred to him then. Maybe the Saintly Saviour didn't want it getting out _why _they had been fighting in the first place... Draco had almost forgotten that little moment of revelation. He still wondered if it held any truth to it. But then, if it didn't, why had Potter reacted so strongly? And then, it would seem, gone to such lengths to conceal the incident...?

"I'll be back in a moment," Pomfrey was saying to the Gryffindor. "Just go get the bandages and a new batch of Skele-Grow from Professor Snape..."

Draco watched intently as the mediwitch left Potter sitting a mere two beds away from him. He kept quiet, waiting for the other boy to notice him. Green eyes drifted around the room, narrowing every now and then with a twinge of pain. Eventually, they wandered in Draco's direction, before widening at the sight of him.

"Malfoy!"

"Hello Potter," Draco greeted, and would have sounded rather friendly if it wasn't for the mocking edge to his voice.

"What are you doing here?"

The Slytherin rolled his eyes. "Throwing a tea party. What does it look like?"

The other boy affected a sneer. "Well, I _would _assume you're sick, but you have a history of faking."

Draco sniffed. "Yes, well, even I wouldn't willingly subject myself to a week of this place."

Potter looked sceptical, but refrained from commenting. He turned his head pointedly in the other direction, evidently deciding that they'd been far too close to civil for his liking.

But Draco was bored. Had been bored for longer than he cared to think about, and wasn't about to let this chance for entertainment slip by him. "So, Potter. How's the girlfriend?"

The Gryffindor ignored him.

"Out of curiosity, did you ever get up the nerve to get under her shirt? Or –"

"Shut the hell up, Malfoy."

The Slytherin held up his hands innocently. "Just asking. She didn't really take my little comment to heart did she? So sorry, Potter. It's a bad habit of mine, that. Carelessly shoving people out of the closet and all..."

Potter fumed, a muscle clenching in his jaw as he tried to keep his temper. "I'm _not _in the closet."

Draco feigned surprise. "Oh really? So... what? You've come out?"

"Oh fuck off."

"Honestly, Potter. I thought you had more manners than that. Abusing a person in his sickbed..."

"Abuse?!" The Gryffindor was suddenly on his feet with indignity, stalking around the beds to stand at the foot of Draco's. "_You're _accusing _me _of abuse?!"

Draco shrugged. "As I recall, the last time we saw each other, _you _attacked _me_."

"You broke my rib," Potter returned smoothly.

"Merely defending myself." The blonde paused, then cocked his head, a smirk tilting his mouth. "But you didn't tell anyone that, did you? You _covered _for me..."

"I didn't cover –"

"No," Draco interrupted. "I suppose you were covering for yourself. It just wouldn't do for Hogwarts to find out _why _you started that particular fight... would it?"

"...I don't know what you're talking about."

The Slytherin grinned. "Sure you do. We both do." He waited for agonising moments, waited to see his rival's stubborn glare flicker, before he softly added, "Of course... I might be willing to keep it that way. For now."

With visible effort, the Gryffindor masked whatever reaction was going on inside him. He lifted his chin defiantly. "Think whatever gets you through the night, Malfoy."

A genuine laugh escaped Draco's mouth. "Oh Potter. You're not my type."

The Gryffindor shook his head and turned away, seemingly in disgust. In moments, Madam Pomfrey returned, dosed Potter with Skele-Grow and attached a splint to his wrist. She told him to take a seat and wait around while the potion took effect. The boy looked pained, but he did what he was asked.

The nurse made her way over to Draco then, right on time for his daily progress check. Resignedly, he sat up and gave her a woe-is-me look.

She smiled wryly and took out her wand. "Don't give me those eyes," she chided lightly. "It won't do any good." Her wand began the usual pattern of movements, casting the same diagnosis spells she'd cast once a day since his arrival here.

This time, she frowned in surprise.

"What?" Draco demanded, already imagining all sorts of disasters. "What is it?"

In the background, Potter craned his neck to look in their direction.

She shook her head mutely. "I..." Her wand movements became faster as she checked and double checked her spells. "You seem... fine."

He blinked. "Isn't... that a good thing? I'm getting better?"

She looked perplexed. "You're not _getting _better... You _are_ better. At least... that's what this is telling me..." She looked almost accusingly at her wand. Then, huffing, she apparently gave up on the magical method and resorted to the traditional. She pressed her wrist against his forehead, none too gently. "Temperature's down..." she murmured. "Any nausea? Fatigue? Headache?"

Draco opened his mouth to answer, and for the first time realised that... no, he _didn't _feel anything. He felt... good. Really good. "No," he answered faintly. "Nothing."

"You're sure? Your recovery seems awfully... sudden."

"Once again... isn't that a good thing?"

She pursed her lips. "Yes, I... suppose so. Well. It seems I no longer have reason to detain you, Mr Malfoy..."

Draco couldn't repress his eager expression. "So I can go?"

"Well. Yes."

He didn't waste any more time, just in case she changed her mind. Moving behind the screen near his bed, he swiftly changed back into his normal clothes, almost toppling over in his haste. He had gathered up his school things, reading books and box of chocolate in a matter of moments, shoved everything into his bag and was on his way towards the door before the mediwitch could utter a second opinion.

He flashed a grin at the Gryffindor as he passed. "Bye Potter." He wasn't even phased by the look of loathing he received in return.

--

**Sakuri: **Just started back at college unfortunately, so the updates won't be quite as fast from now on. Hope you'll stick with it anyway.


	6. Spot of Trouble

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 6**: Spot of Trouble

--

Severus Apparated just outside the wards surrounding Malfoy Manor, making his way through the wrought iron gates and through the lavish garden, where the white peacocks hurried out of his path. On his arm, the Dark Mark flared again, reminding him of his Lord's anger. Severus quickened his step.

One of the Malfoy house elves greeted him at the door, but he swept past it without acknowledgement. The gilt-framed paintings murmured as he hurried by, heading for the large dining room that served as the Dark Lord's sanctuary and meeting place.

Lucius waited for him at the door to the room. The other wizard stepped aside and opened the door. He did not raise his eyes to look Severus in the face, and the Potions Master used his behaviour to gage the amount of trouble he was in.

Nothing seemed to have moved since the last time Severus had been here. The long dining table was as impressive as ever, stretching the length of the room. At its head sat his Lord, waiting for him. The two muggles were once again suspended near the ceiling, but they were conscious this time. A Silencing spell had obviously been cast upon them, however, for although tears streamed down the woman's face, lightly splashing the glossy tabletop now and then, and her husband's mouth worked in a constant litany of panicked and fearful obscenities, not a sound could be heard.

Severus did not look at them very long. Averting his eyes, he moved towards his master, kneeling obediently. This was not a meeting. Severus was the only Death Eater present, having been summoned by the burning of the tattoo on his arm. With his head down, he waited for the punishment he'd been expecting for the last few days.

"You have defied me again, Severus." The voice was a sibilant whisper, soft with deadly anger. "And your actions have cost me greatly, this time."

"I –"

"_NO_!" his Lord suddenly thundered, leaning forward in the chair he occupied. "You will not make excuses this time! Traitor! _Spy_!"

The Potions Master kept perfectly still, barely daring to blink.

"Your intervention has ruined my plan. My agent did not manage to bond with Potter. What's more, he has fallen into the hands of the Order and is now unreachable – all _your _doing!"

Severus mentally gathered himself before he spoke. He knew his argument would be a weak one, and there was a good chance he wouldn't survive the punishment meted out as a result. He braced himself and whispered contritely, "My Lord, you must understand that I have to offer Dumbledore something if he is to continue believing –"

"You offer him nothing – _nothing_! – that jeopardises my efforts!"

"My Lord assured me that nothing I reported to Albus Dumbledore would have any effect on your plans inside Hogwarts. I deemed it harmless information."

That was a dangerous move, and Severus knew it. If he managed to escape – yet again – with his life, he would definitely receive a Crucio for his impertinence. He did not normally play so fast and loose with his own safety, bandying information and excuses between his two masters in such a way. But this time he'd had no choice. An attack had slipped through Dumbledore's defences, placing Potter in direct and immediate danger, and he'd been the only one in a position to diffuse the situation.

It seemed his heroics had cost him the last measure of trust his Lord placed in him.

The man seated before him was silent, for so long that Severus's heartbeat began to race with nervous anticipation. Finally, when bursts of adrenaline into his system were beginning to make him tremble, his Lord spoke softly.

"In my circle, you are the only one granted the liberties you enjoy. I treat you like an errant child, Severus, looking the other way when you go running back to Albus Dumbledore with whatever titbits you have gathered at my councils, all in the hope that one day you will regain your senses and _remember_. Remember why you originally sought me out all those years ago." The Dark Lord shook his head, almost wistfully – if he'd been capable of that sort of sentimental emotion. "I have been fond of you, Severus. You were once a good and faithful servant. You have been valuable. You are still valuable – fortunately."

The Potions Master shivered, and that was the only sign of immense relief he allowed himself. He remained in his submissive stance, knowing he wasn't about to escape completely unscathed.

"Stand up."

He did so, and stayed perfectly still as his Lord also rose to his feet and began to circle. It didn't come naturally to Severus, allowing someone to dominate him in such a way, but his Slytherin survival instincts generally overrode his sense of pride.

"It would seem, due to your indiscretions, that I no longer have need of... incentives."

The Potions Master dared to glance at the dark wizard, following the red eyed gaze up to the ceiling where the pair of muggles cried and screamed silently. He felt his stomach give an unpleasant lurch.

"It would be small repayment," the Dark Lord went on, "for you to rid me of their distasteful, wasted presence..."

Severus clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. This was a new form of creative punishment Voldemort favoured lately. Suspecting Severus's true loyalties, he had taken to leaving it to the Slytherin spy to perform Avadka Kadavra on the captives who passed through Malfoy Manor. He seemed to gain vindictive amusement from it.

Currently, Severus looked directly at the muggles, forcing himself not to turn away. He would do them that honour, at the very least. These were not just nameless faces he could disassociate himself from. These were the parents of a boy he'd taught for the last six years. However indirect, there was a link there.

Probably why his Lord was making him do it.

Sometimes, Severus would try to justify the act by reminding himself that his victims would have met a worse fate by far at the hands of another Death Eater, or the Dark Lord himself. His were purely mercy killings.

Steeling himself, the Potions Master raised his wand, ready to put the unfortunate muggles out of their misery.

A claw-like hand suddenly grasped his arm, nails digging in until he winced. Voldemort leaned in close, and he was overcome with the scent of ash and mildew. The unnatural, sibilant voice hissed directly into his ear, "Take your time, Severus," and emphasised the words with a vicious clench of his hand.

He wasn't sure if he hated his Lord or himself more, as he once again raised his wand and whispered the dreaded Unforgivable. "_Crucio_..."

Voldemort removed the Silencing spell.

--

Of all the insults ever thrown his way – and there had been many – no one had ever called Draco stupid. In fact, he was far from it. Draco was among the top students at Hogwarts, perhaps second only to Granger – and he credited even that to the fact that most professors favoured her above him.

The point remained, Draco was clever. He noticed things. He noticed people; often saw the things about them they didn't want him to see. For example, there was his little insight into Potter's mockery of a relationship with the Weaselette. Draco was shrewd enough to know this talent of his gave him power. He watched and he listened to the people around him, even when he appeared barely to acknowledge their existence. He was much the Slytherin spy himself, keeping a mental dossier of any observations or suspicions he found interesting.

And it was times like these that Draco was grateful for his people-studying habits. Certain things were beginning to come together, although he wasn't yet sure where his deductions were leading him. As he'd found worked best, he lay with his eyes closed and allowed his mind to wander where it pleased.

It had started after his flight from the Hospital Wing. Finally given half the chance to think, when the initial relief of escaping Pomfrey's constant watch had passed, he'd started to question his quick and unexpected recovery with suspicion. What had changed to so drastically improve his health? Why a week or more of deterioration, only to do a complete turnaround in a matter of hours? Pomfrey hadn't done anything; had found no sudden cure for his illness nor explanation for the unknown 'magical signature'. The only thing to set that particular day apart from all the others which had made up his monotonous stay had been Potter's presence.

That thought had naturally led to memories of their conversation and his budding curiosity about the Gryffindor's... preferences. Oh, Draco could just imagine how the Daily Prophet would run with a topic like this. He smirked to himself at that thought. Yes, there was fun to be had there, but surprisingly he'd meant what he'd said to Potter. He could keep a secret. For now. It would doubtlessly come in handy to finally have leverage over the famous Boy Who Lived...

Not that Potter wouldn't deserve it if Draco _somehow_ let the secret slip. The Slytherin was still smarting over the implied insult Potter had delivered to him in the form of gift-wrapped muggle money. _Honestly_. As if–

Draco stopped. His mind abruptly slotted the different pieces together with almost audible clicks. He sat bolt upright on his bed, eyes wide with alarm.

With sudden clarity, he remembered the moment he'd opened the Secret Santa present. He'd touched the silver coin and felt a spark – the spark of magic. Now that he thought about it, he even recalled wondering if Potter had put a curse on it!

And he'd been right! The git _had_! He _must _have!

It had been almost immediately after that when he'd started to get the initial symptoms of his mysterious illness. He'd simply gotten worse and worse... Even Madam Pomfrey had said it seemed 'unnatural'. Because it was! It was magic! And that magical signature on him... The mark of Potter's spell?

Hadn't he only felt better when he was around the bloody Gryffindor?! Yes, twice now. After their fight in the Astronomy Tower he'd felt brilliant – for a little while. And then there was earlier, in the Hospital Wing... Potter's proximity had worked like a miracle cure on him! But...

_Why _would the Boy Who Lived, of all people, cast a spell on Draco Malfoy, Prince of Slytherin, that would cause him to _need _to be around Potter?! Draco, Slytherin to the core, naturally went to the malicious motives first. He supposed if the Gryffindor _really _wanted to hurt him, it was quite a good idea. Draco would fade away of seemingly natural causes, and none of it could be pinned on the Gryffindor, who would never even have to go near Draco...

But that didn't seem very likely, if he was honest with himself. Potter wasn't really the devious type...

Then why –?

The final piece clicked into place, revealing the puzzle in Draco's mind.

Draco's thoughts on his rival's orientation came fresh to his mind, and suddenly Draco felt a little bit sick again. Oh Merlin no. It couldn't be... He wouldn't... But if Potter really was gay... Why else...?

The Slytherin shot to his feet and raced from the room.

--

Harry idly rotated his wrist as he walked out of the Hospital Wing, the joint finally healed. He'd always been amazed how quickly Madam Pomfrey could fix injuries. He'd only taken the Skele-Grow a couple of hours ago, his wrist badly broken from an awkward crash landing. Now, it felt like there had never been anything wrong.

Still dressed in his Quidditch gear, he decided to stop by the Gryffindor common room for a change of clothes before he went to find Hermione and Ginny. Ron would still be down on the practice field, and Harry felt like he'd had enough of Quidditch – at least for this one day. With the run of luck he was having lately, he'd only end up back in the Hospital Wing yet again...

He was just coming to the staircase which would lead him towards Gryffindor Tower when he heard the footsteps. Curious, he leaned over the banister and looked down, only to see a familiar blonde Slytherin pelting up the stone stairs. Just then, Malfoy happened to look up and catch sight of him. Grey eyes widened and the blonde jabbed a finger at him. "Potter! Don't you _dare _move!" And then he was running again. Harry could hear his breath coming in pants, and raised a shocked eyebrow, wondering what he'd done.

Malfoy skidded into the corridor Harry stood in and suddenly the Gryffindor found himself facing the other's hawthorn wand. Malfoy angled for his throat and appeared to be positively trembling with rage. "Potter, you sick twist!" Harry had never seen him so furious.

"What did I do?" he asked, surprised into sounding wounded.

The Slytherin didn't answer. Instead, he steadied his aim and issued a curse in Harry's direction.

The Gryffindor ducked the red bream emanating from Malfoy's wand just in time, before scrambling to the side as it was followed up by several more vicious bursts of magic. Harry grasped the banister and bounded up the stairs, fumbling in his pocket for his own wand as he tried desperately to keep moving and avoid the hail of hexes he was being bombarded with.

Malfoy had gone mad! He really had this time! He showed no signs of self-control or even the patented Malfoy dignity. His face was contorted as he continued his attack, stalking after the hastily retreating Gryffindor.

Finally gathering his wits, Harry cast a Protego Charm as he came to the next landing, forming a protective shield around himself which the Slytherin's curses bounced off of in all directions. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" he yelled incredulously.

"You cursed me!" Malfoy screamed hatefully. "Just so I'd... So I had to..." But he couldn't seem to finish that sentence, breaking off with a disgusted snarl. "You're _sick_, Potter!"

"What are you talking about?!" Harry continued to back away, so shocked by the behaviour that he couldn't even summon the anger he usually felt towards the Slytherin.

"That _fucking _coin!" Malfoy all but shrieked. "I _know _you cursed it! I know what you've done to me!"

"Malfoy, I haven't –!"

"_Furnunculus_!"

Harry dodged backwards and tripped on the next flight of stairs, landing on his back staring up at the enraged Slytherin. Malfoy was on him in a second, his wand tip lodged painfully under Harry's chin. The Gryffindor's mind was awhirl as he tried to figure out what had just happened.

"Malfoy...!" His last defence was taken as the blonde suddenly grabbed his newly healed wrist and slammed it against the stairs. Pain lanced through his hand, and his wand fell from numb fingers.

"Look, Potter, I don't give a fuck if you want to pretend you're as straight as they come. I don't. Go fuck the Weaselette, for all I care, and try to explain why you only ever want to do it from behind." The Slytherin spoke with thorough scorn, and pressed his wand harder into Harry's throat for emphasis. "But you _will not _drag me into your little sexual identity crisis!"

"_What_?!" Finally, Harry had regained himself somewhat. Stunned by the sudden attack and barrage of accusations, it occurred to him that he had no idea what Malfoy was ranting about. He sounded... _delusional_, for God's sake, and Harry had to wonder if he was really as healthy as Madam Pomfrey had deemed him. "Malfoy, get the hell off me! What's _wrong _with you?!"

"Don't you _dare _turn this on me!" the Slytherin continued to rage. "Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?! Your curse wasn't exactly _subtle_!"

"_What _curse?!" the Gryffindor demanded cluelessly, resisting the urge to struggle. Though Malfoy was smaller than him, and light enough that he could easily have thrown him off in a fair fight, he had to keep in mind that the Slytherin was the only one in possession of a wand.

"You know damn well! _You're _the one making me sick! I _knew _I felt magic on that bloody muggle coin of yours!"

"I didn't do anything to it! I just... I thought it would be funny, okay?! Now get _off_!" He made to shove the blonde away, but Malfoy's wand jabbed him again. He was going to have one hell of a bruise. What's more, the rather wild expression the other wore was starting to unnerve him. Harry wondered if there was any chance of Madam Pomfrey entering the corridor and finding them. _Surely_ she'd released Malfoy too soon, and would want to rectify that mistake...

"So what is it then?" the Slytherin asked snidely. "Some kind of... of _crush_?! I always knew you were obsessed with me, Potter, but _this_...! This is twisted, even by _my _standards! You think you can _force _me to spend time with you or something? Trust me, Potter, I'll take being sick over that _any _day!"

Harry had heard enough. He had no idea what Malfoy was babbling about and didn't care to find out.

He bucked suddenly, taking the Slytherin by surprise. Malfoy almost lost his balance, perched atop Harry as he was, and was forced to throw out an arm to steady himself. His wand was taken from the Gryffindor's throat, and Harry took full advantage of the fact. He made a grab for it, and the two went tumbling down the stone stairs.

Harry elbowed the Slytherin in the stomach on the way down. Malfoy grunted, the breath knocked from him, and couldn't help but relinquish his hold on the wand. Harry snatched it triumphantly, already fighting to get to his feet. But, realising the advantage he'd lost, the Slytherin lashed out and dragged his opponent back down, before making a desperate dive for _Harry's _wand, which lay abandoned at the foot of the stairs.

"_Accio _wand!"

Malfoy missed the coveted object by inches as it flew past him and back into Harry's hand. The Gryffindor clutched it tightly, and temporarily pocketed Malfoy's.

Rendered helpless, the blonde could only glare impotently up at Harry from where he kneeled on the stone steps. With what dignity remained to him, he climbed carefully to his feet, smoothing down his white shirt.

"Give it _back_, Potter," he ordered quietly.

Harry ignored him entirely.

"I don't know _what _is wrong with you, Malfoy, but I have nothing to do with it! I don't – I can't – Are you _delusional_?!" Harry shook his head, lost for words with disbelief. From what he could gather from the Slytherin's fragmented accusations, Malfoy thought _Harry _was making him sick, so that... So that what? So that Draco had to spend time with him? What the _fuck_?!

"_Why _would I willingly want you anywhere near me, Malfoy?!" Harry vented, throwing his hands in the air. "I wouldn't. I never have! Take a fucking hint, for God's sake, and stay the hell away from me!"

Malfoy snarled. "Then _you _explain it, Potter! Ever since that _stupid _Secret Santa game, _why _have I had to be near _you _to feel even halfway human?!"

Harry took a step back, and then another. He shook his head slowly. "Don't care. Don't want to know. Just... go away."

And then the Gryffindor took Malfoy's wand from his pocket, held it over the drop beyond the banister, and let go. The Slytherin cried out in protest, almost toppling after it as he tried desperately to stop Harry. Wide eyed, Malfoy watched his precious wand fall three floors before being caught on one of the moving stairs. "_Potter_!" His voice was a little higher pitched than usual with incredulity.

Harry shrugged, all innocence, and the Slytherin could only stare at him in shock, stunned, as if seeing an entirely unknown side to the Gryffindor. "_Fine_," he snapped suddenly. "Don't admit it. Just get rid of it. I swear to Merlin, Potter, if you don't, I'll tell Dumbledore. I'll tell the papers! I'll tell my _father _if I have to!"

Malfoy hesitated, then with one last glare, turned and stormed away, worry for his beloved wand visibly tugging at him.

Harry snorted. Then, after a moment's pause, he too leaned over the banister and shouted after the Slytherin, "And for fuck's sake, I'm not _gay_!"

--

Draco was panicking. He was starting to get the feeling he'd just made a very big mistake. Minutes ago, he'd been thoroughly convinced that Potter was responsible for his illness. His reasoning had been sound. After all, he _was _amazing – why wouldn't Potter fancy him if he was into guys? Besides. The Gryffindor had always been that little bit unhinged. The Prophet could portray him as the tortured, noble hero all they liked – but Draco knew the truth, and he wouldn't have put a curse like that past Potter, if he could work the magic well enough.

But now... Potter had just seemed so _genuinely _horrified. His words still rang in Draco's ears. _**Why **__would I willingly want you anywhere near me, Malfoy?! I never have! _The Slytherin's lip curled. He couldn't help but think back to his first day at Hogwarts, when Potter had so bluntly rejected him like it was nothing. Like _he _was nothing! The friendship of a Malfoy so casually dismissed...

So if the Boy Who Lived really didn't have anything to do with whatever was happening to Draco, had he, in his outrage, just given away far too much information...? Had he said anything Potter could use against him?

He cringed, remembering his own words. _Ever since that __**stupid**__ Secret Santa game, __**why**__ have I had to be near __**you**__ to feel even halfway human?!_ Well. He could have phrased _that _better. But he didn't think Potter would say anything. After all, he still had his own bargaining chip, didn't he? And the Gryffindor's last-minute, half-hearted denial wasn't fooling anyone, thank you very much...

Still, something had to be done. Even if Potter wasn't responsible, Draco _knew _something was wrong. He didn't know why he hadn't realised it sooner. Now that Madam Pomfrey had drawn attention to the magical signature on him, he imagined he could _feel _it under his skin. It was uncomfortable and distracting, tugging his mind somewhere else when he should be concentrating. It was obviously wreaking havoc with his health, and he had the strange suspicion that it was affecting his dreams, though he could never remember them...

Draco would not tell Dumbledore, whom he didn't trust as far as he could hex. Nor would he go to the Prophet, as he'd threatened Potter – not when he didn't yet know the consequences it would have for _him_.

He would, however, do what he always did when he found himself in a spot of trouble at school...

He would write to Daddy.


	7. Like Father, Like Son

**Sakuri: **Sorry this was delayed. Got a bit stuck. 'Dark' chapters are harder to write, unfortunately. Hope you like, anyway.

Oh, also... Not sure if 'Morsmordre' is the right spell, since specifics are never actually given in the books. Oh well.

**--**

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 7**: Like Father, Like Son

--

Narcissa Malfoy hated her life at the moment. She was a woman unaccustomed to being put upon in her own home, but unfortunately that was the state of things lately at Malfoy Manor.

Currently, she sat at her vanity table in the bedroom she shared with Lucius, staring impassively at her reflection as she combed out her long blond hair. A warmer tone than that of her husband and son, it fell in luxurious waves over her pale shoulders, curling gently at the collar of her red gown. She'd always been vain when it came to her hair, the only member of the Black family to inherit the golden colouring. With slow, graceful movements, she set down the ornate comb on the table before her and picked up her wand. A few practiced flicks, and her hair was lifted from her shoulders, coiled and arranged into the intricate style she favoured, and fixed in place, a few loose ringlets left to emphasise the softness of grey eyes.

It was the third time that morning she had performed the ritual.

There was nothing else to _do_! She felt trapped, _confined _in her own home! While Lucius was kept busy attending to his Lord when he was present, or keeping an eye on the Death Eaters who frequented the Manor, or making sure the Malfoy name remained aboveboard in the eyes of the general public – a difficult task when one had a Dark Lord taking residence in one's dining room – Narcissa was left to her own devices. This would not have been such a problem if her actions weren't so severely restricted.

No longer was she allowed to do as she pleased, go where she wanted. Though 'solitary confinement' wasn't how her houseguests would have phrased it, that was what her treatment amounted to. She spent her time alone, unable to contact anyone outside of the Manor, and Lucius was forever occupied. She _longed _to see Draco, or at least write to him, but that too was forbidden. Perhaps the Dark Lord feared he was too much his mother's son, and with her influence, he, too, would refuse to take the Mark...

She only wished that were so. But no... No, Draco was his father's son through and through. Draco had grown up in Lucius's shadow, always staring up at his father with stars in his eyes. He idolised and emulated the man, had tried to be just like him ever since he could walk and talk.

He would take the Mark in a heartbeat, she knew with dread certainty, just to follow in Lucius's footsteps.

There had once been a time when, unquestioningly, she loved everything Lucius was and did. But she knew, now, that he – like every mere mortal – made mistakes. And sometimes...

Sometimes she hated him for leading Draco to make those same mistakes.

Letting out a quiet sigh, Narcissa rose to her feet, the folds of her gown whispering softly with her movements. She carefully returned her wand to its hiding place in her sleeve and cast her eyes around for something else that might occupy her time.

Suddenly, the door burst open, without even the courteous knock she'd come to expect when her solitude was interrupted. She spun in annoyance, turning a glare on the intruder, only to be taken somewhat aback by the sight of her husband.

Lucius was wide eyed and more flustered than she could remember seeing him. His long hair seemed windswept, as if he'd rushed here through the winding corridors of the Manor without a thought for decorum. In his hand he clutched a half crumpled piece of parchment.

"What is it?" she demanded, taking a step towards him.

Wordless, he held out the parchment, which she realised was a letter. She began to read, her stomach going cold as she did so, and as if from a distance she heard Lucius talking.

"...It's Draco. He's... Those are the symptoms, Narcissa! The symptoms that wretched little mudblood was supposed to have by now... It's the curse... _Draco _is the one caught up in it with Potter!"

Narcissa's chin snapped up. The letter trembled in her hands. "This is _your _fault!" she spat, her delicate features twisting in anger and fear for her son.

"_Fault_?!" Lucius repeated incredulously. "If it is my _fault _that our son is now in a position to return the Malfoys to our Lord's favour – so be it! Narcissa, don't you see? Draco is now invaluable to the Dark Lord! If... if anything, he is safer than he has ever been."

She wanted to slap him, if only to knock some sense into him. "Is that how you really see it, Lucius? Are you so naive?" She fumbled for her wand, concealed in her sleeve, intending to destroy the letter there and then. Lucius saw her intent, though, and dived forward to stop her. His hand closed around her wrist and he snatched away the parchment.

"Don't be a fool!" he hissed, furious.

"_Me_?! What exactly do you intend to do? Hand our son over to _his _devices! You have no idea what he'd do to Draco! There must be a _reason _he chose to use a mudblood in the first place! Don't you _think_...?!"

Lucius snarled, and tucked the letter safely into his robes. "I _am _thinking, Narcissa! I'm thinking of us _all_, collectively. What about you? Do you wish to be forced to take the Mark? Or stay cooped up here forever?!"

"No, I –"

"Well then! We must _act _if we wish to drag ourselves from this disfavour. We must prove ourselves _redeemable_, Narcissa... Draco can do that. He will be key to Potter's defeat, and our Lord cannot ignore that!"

"...He will be _Marked_!"

Lucius hesitated. "Yes. He will be. But you must try to understand..."

"I understand that you are trading our son for the goodwill of a madman!"

Her husband appeared to withdraw then, standing a little straighter and allowing his expression to close over. She knew she had lost any hope of persuading him.

Lucius turned smartly on his heel and quit the room, leaving Narcissa to sink down onto the bed in defeat, feeling as if she had already lost him.

She wasn't even sure which 'him' she meant...

--

The Dark Lord read over the scrawls of the teenager a third time, just to be sure. He did not wish to resurrect his dashed hopes if this was all for nothing. Lucius hovered nervously in front of him, clearly fighting the urge to fidget like a scolded child. Pathetic, really...

However, it must be said that the man had his uses. The news he had brought, for example, was priceless.

It meant that the plan was back in motion.

Oh there would have to be modifications made to accommodate for recent mistakes. He would, if truth be told, have preferred the mudblood to remain as his agent. Mudbloods were weak willed and easy to control. The Malfoy boy... Well, he had all the pride and defiance of a true pureblood, and purebloods were not known to bend their will so easily. But then...

He _was _Lucius's son. Perhaps he would not be such a problem if, as the saying went, the apple didn't fall too far from the tree.

One could only hope he didn't take after his mother, stubborn bitch that she was...

Could this work, then? If he Marked the boy, creating the same link he had shared with the mudblood – what a detestable experience – and thereby completing the chain that would tie him to Potter...

Yes, it could work. He could barely believe the luck of it. How on Earth had it come about that he was to be given this second chance? How had the youngest Malfoy been caught up in events? _How _had he been so fortunate, to escape the notice of the Order this second time round...?

Questions he had no answers for. At this moment, he didn't care.

"Bring him," he ordered, feeling his excitement creeping back.

Lucius bowed his head.

--

Draco dreamed of people he didn't know. There was a blonde woman, thin and tall, with a horse-like face. She had mean eyes, that only ever softened when she looked at the ridiculously oversized child she called "Duddy". There was another; a man with violence emanating from him. Draco feared him instinctively, felt the urge to duck and pretend he didn't exist when this man looked his way...

The scene shifted, and suddenly Draco was peering in at a snake, where it lay behind a glass pane. Not only that, he was _talking _to it – discussing Brazil, of all things – and had the immense feeling that the reptile was better company than the three people he didn't know would ever be.

But then people were screaming... The snake was slithering free, liberated, thanks to him... But everyone was _screaming _so much! He'd done something wrong... He would be punished, when he got home...

Another shift. He was running, gasping for breath, his side burning. That lumbering child and a gang of others followed him, and he knew if they caught him it would end in pain and humiliation. But he couldn't keep running like this... It hurt too much. He was slowing, unable to help himself. Desperation and panic...

And suddenly, out of nowhere, he was sat atop a roof. Draco blinked in astonishment, experiencing the uplifting rush of being safe from pursuit, and almost simultaneously the sinking realisation that he would be in _so much _trouble... Perhaps it would have been better to let himself get caught...

He was in a cupboard. Dark and dank, there was barely room enough to lie down. He whispered in the darkness, told himself that the sooner he went to sleep, the sooner it would be morning and he could escape the confinement. Something tickled his arm, and he twitched convulsively, disgust filling him at the thought of the spiders that lived in here with him. He curled up under his sheet and squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted something he couldn't put a name to; something he couldn't quite hold in his mind. Anything but this, really. There was something more. There had to be. He wanted–

Draco woke with a gasp to find someone shaking him roughly.

"...Malfoy! Mr Malfoy, wake up! You're dreaming!"

He slapped away the hand that touched him, deeply startled. He found himself sitting bolt upright, breathing rapidly and clutching his bedcovers as he stared up at an equally startled Potions Master.

Draco blinked and looked around, for a moment overwhelmed with confusion as to where he was. It was dark in the room; not yet sunrise. In four-poster beds all around him, others slept soundly. The Slytherin dorms. Of course. He had no idea what had come over him, that he wouldn't recognise the place.

He looked back at Severus, noticing the shadowed expression the man wore. "What's wrong?"

"Your father is here to collect you."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "He's... he's _here_? _Now_?!"

"Yes. He is waiting in the Headmaster's office. Something of a... family emergency, I am led to believe."

Shocked, Draco threw off the covers and moved to stand, only to be stopped by a forceful hand on his shoulder. He looked up into the dark eyes of the other.

"I would advise you to compose yourself before meeting with your father, Mr Malfoy."

Draco frowned in confusion. "What...?" Slowly, he raised a hand to where Severus stared, touching his cheek. He twitched in surprise. Tears had dried on his face, tears come and gone in sleep. "I..."

Severus frowned. "Just a dream, Draco. Whatever it was about." He hesitated, before returning to his brusque manner. "Hurry. Get dressed. I shall wait in the common room to escort you."

--

Draco had not expected his letter to stir up such a reaction from his father. He had been waiting for a letter in return, perhaps containing answers to his questions, perhaps just reassurance that he was blowing the situation out of proportion. He had _not _expected his father to show up at the school and sweep him back to Malfoy Manor.

They did not travel by Floo, though Lucius's manner suggested he would have preferred the instantaneous transportation. But of course, the Manor was no longer connected to the Floo network. One did not leave doors open to the world when one had as many dark secrets as his family did...

Instead, they were travelling by carriage into Hogsmeade, where the Portkey Lucius carried could then be activated. Sitting in the cushioned seat opposite his father, Draco studied the man in wary silence. He was still not sure what, exactly, was going on. Lucius was clearly on edge. His face was pale, lips thinned, and the fingers of his right hand tapped repetitively on the head of his cane; a nervous habit.

"Father...?"

The elder Malfoy started, looking at him sharply as if he'd almost forgotten Draco's presence.

"Why are we going home?"

Lucius sighed, and turned his face to the window of the carriage. His blond hair shivered in a stray breeze; the rest of him remained frozen. "It is time, Draco."

It took Draco a mere moment to realise what his father was referring to. His pulse quickened when he did. Time to be Marked. Finally.

So the Dark Lord had asked for him at last. He would be given the chance to prove his loyalty, to show that he was every bit as worthy as his father. He could be trusted. He could be useful. He _would _be useful!

"...I am sorry, Draco."

His father's voice broke through his reverie. He blinked and looked at the man in surprise. "Why?" he asked faintly, shaking his head in confusion. "I _want_ this."

Lucius did not take his eyes from the window. "I know," he murmured, as if to himself. "That's why I'm sorry..."

He would not speak again.

--

For once, Narcissa was permitted to attend the meeting that evening. Perhaps the Dark Lord hoped it would break her spirit, she suspected shrewdly. She was not so sure he was wrong.

As she had known and feared, Draco had succumbed to the urge to follow in his father's footsteps. She watched him now, from across the room. He looked too young to be here; out of place among adults. Only sixteen, she thought with breaking heart. Only sixteen and on a road to ruin. She wanted to rush forward and grab him, drag him out of this room, out of this life. She wanted to cry and throw her arms around him, hold him like he was a little boy again.

But what was worst...

He would not want her. Even if she did try to save him now, if she pled with him or tried to put a stop to the ceremony, he would resent her. He would push her away, hate her for ruining his moment and what he mistook for glory.

He and Lucius knelt side by side, blonde heads bowed to their Lord. She wanted to sneer at them, or cry for them, or both. She wanted Draco to come to his senses, see the danger he was blithely walking into, hand in hand with his _loving _father...

The Dark Lord finished whatever speech he'd been making; she hadn't listened. He paused, perhaps for dramatic effect. "Do you accept these responsibilities and duties as I have outlined them, Draco Malfoy?"

Her son let out a breath sharply. "I do."

"So be it. Hold out your arm."

She watched helplessly as he carefully rolled up the sleeve of his fine robes and bared the white, vulnerable flesh of his wrist. Every instinct in her wanted to rush forward and halt the proceedings, yet she found herself frozen as if by magic.

Draco didn't let himself tremble as he held out his arm. Nor did he raise his eyes from the stone floor before him, just as his father had cautioned him. He didn't think he could have looked up even if he'd wanted to. He was terrified. His thoughts raced wildly, randomly. He tried to focus on Lucius's usually solid presence at his side, but couldn't seem to keep a hold on it. Whatever comfort his father's nearness might have offered was swept away by awe and fear of the Dark Lord, so close to him, bearing down.

He was ready for this, he reminded himself yet again. How long had he waited for this moment? Hadn't he dreamed of taking the Mark? It would be his thrilling little secret, hidden under the dark folds of his robes, a mark of power. It would be what set him apart from the nameless, faceless drones of Hogwarts. Even if they didn't know it, or wouldn't acknowledge it, _he _had his reminder. _He _would know that he was part of something bigger and better; that he was _more _than a child to be scolded for being tardy to lessons. It was the personal signature of his Lord, forever branded on him. It was what would make his father proud.

Cold fingers suddenly closed around him, too tight, painful. He told himself not to wince, not to pull away. Even as the burning tip of a wand began to trace its way along his palm, the tender skin of his wrist, down towards his forearm, burning all the way, he didn't flinch. He refused to show weakness. From the corner of his eye he could see Lucius sneaking glances at him, clearly anxious. He wanted to send a reassuring look at his father, but didn't dare move.

The man he knelt before let out a rattling breath. "Witness, another has joined our number this day." There was an almost inaudible ripple of sound from the gathered Death Eaters. Draco couldn't tell if it was approving or otherwise. "Young, by our standards, he is among the next generation to continue our worthy cause. Look at me, Draco Malfoy."

Draco felt his breath catch. He longed to dart a glance at Lucius, to seek instructions, but managed to steady himself. Slowly, he brought his head up, straightening his back and shoulders, and forced himself to look into the face of his Lord.

Red eyes caught and held his own instantly. He knew Legilimency was at work, but there was nothing he could do to combat it. Though he had some basic skills in Occlumency, to resist now would be a terrible mistake, he sensed instinctively. It was the strangest sensation, as if some hand was rifling through his every thought and memory. Incidents he'd believed long forgotten suddenly flashed to the fore, and the very concept of privacy was beyond him in those moments. He trembled, then.

Transfixed by the stare, he almost missed the sight of the massive serpent wound around his Lord's neck. Only when it hissed did he notice it, and his attention, despite himself, zeroed in on the creature.

It swayed in his vision, its blunt head and lidless eyes transfixing. He felt... odd, looking at it. Déjà vu crept upon him, some distant flicker of recognition. Why did he feel he had seen the thing before...? Surely that was impossible. Despite his House affiliation, he'd never been near a snake in his life, if truth be told.

But this... He _knew_ her, somehow. Come to that, how did he even know her to _be_ a 'her'?! He'd seen her... somewhere...

She hissed at him again, and his thoughts swam, blurred at the edges. The sibilant sounds almost seemed to make _sense _to him... almost formed words...

Suddenly, high pitched laughter pierced his thoughts. He started, and snapped his attention back to the red eyes, which appeared to dance with satisfaction and amusement.

"I see the link is already in full working order!" the Dark Lord chuckled to himself. Without warning, the touch of his Legilimency withdrew, sending sparks of pain throughout Draco's head.

He reeled for a moment, fighting not to clamp his hands over his ears and squeeze shut his eyes. Gasping, he managed not to look away. "Wh-what link?"

His Lord smiled slowly. "All in good time, Malfoy..." The hand which still held onto his wrist, momentarily forgotten, tightened abruptly. The burning wand tip pressed hard into his arm.

"_Morsmordre_!"

He tried not to scream...

--

Lucius led his son up the stairs of the west wing, towards the bedroom Draco had always slept in. He kept a steadying hand on the dazed teenager's shoulder, practically guiding him at every turn.

Narcissa had not come with them, once they'd all been dismissed. She'd cast him a single, pointed look from across the room, betrayed, and all but fled back to her solitude.

She acted as if he was _happy _about this situation! She acted as if he _condoned _it! He knew, at the heart of him, that he did not act in his son's best interests in bringing Draco here, encouraging him down this path. But he _did _act in the interests of the Malfoys, as a whole, as a family. One must sometimes make sacrifices. Hadn't they been teetering precariously on the edge of damnation? Shadowed by the Dark Lord's displeasure. But now...

Now they were back in their rightful place. With Draco now a pivotal player in their Lord's plan, his loyalty confirmed, favour once again shone upon them. Narcissa would be given back at least some of her freedom, and he himself could stop cringing at every sharp movement. They would triumph, in the end, and the Malfoys would come out on top, as they always did...

It would be worth it, he consoled himself. It would be worth it...


	8. Not According to Plan

**Sakuri: **Sorry, you'll notice in this fic that I take aspects mostly from books 6 and 7 and kind of... twist them, to fit my own story xD Anyway, that means that _some _facts won't strictly adhere to the books, although I try to stick to everything that's gone before where my fic picks up. Hope that works for ya.

**---**

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 8**: Not According to Plan

---

The last of the festive decorations had been cleared away by the time Draco returned to Hogwarts, and the professors were already reinforcing the studious atmosphere of the school. He let it wash over him, found it oddly comforting. Familiar.

Then, catching himself, he would scorn his own reaction. He was supposed to be throwing off all that was familiarand safe. He didn't want _familiar_.

Could never have familiar again...

When he was alone in the Slytherin dorm room, he would sit on his bed and spell the curtains closed, before carefully pulling back his sleeve to stare at the tattoo in fascination. It still hurt; a constant low-key stinging that he couldn't quite tune out. Uncertainly, he would trace a finger around its outline, wide eyed and still astonished that it was real...

For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to tell Pansy or Blaise, or any of the Slytherins for that matter, even though it could do wonders for his status among the 'next generation' of Death Eaters, as they'd been termed. Perhaps it was his natural paranoia kicking in, emphasised by the fact he could now be expelled – or worse – if he was discovered, but the mere thought of revealing the Mark to anyone, even his friends, made him faintly ill.

He told himself it was initial nerves and shock. Once he calmed down, and the excitement of the whole experience had faded, then he would be fine, and it would be more like he'd imagined it to be...

Hiding the Dark Mark would become a secret thrill to him, not a chore that made him jittery with the fear of being caught. It would make him powerful, make him confident. He could see himself, a Dark wizard in their midst, smug in his anonymity.

At the moment, everything was still precarious, on edge. He was being initiated. He had to pass the test he'd been given before he could relax...

A test he could never have imagined.

Draco had barely believed his father when Lucius had sat him down and began explaining the situation. The plan, the coin, the spell mistakenly cast upon him... He could see how he'd managed to come to the conclusion he had; how two and two had become five. But the reality was even more outlandish.

That _he _was to be the key to Potter's defeat... Could he _do _that? It wasn't the type of rivalry they were used to. Draco had always experienced displays of bravado from the Gryffindor; shows of aggression; clean – if sometimes violent – competition. But they had never _hid _their hatred for one another, or their intentions to win the unspoken game. Pansy had often despaired that he wasn't 'Slytherin' enough whenever it came to Potter. She said he lost all his subtlety and finesse, resorting to fist fights and name calling as they did.

This... this was underhand, the mission he was about to begin. _Insidious_. Potter would have no idea what was going to hit him, or that Draco was behind it. He wondered if this was what it meant to finally fully embrace his Slytherin nature, and if Pansy would approve.

His father, when he had been explaining what was expected of Draco, had spoken with excitement. It had been strange, though. Draco hadn't been able to decide whether it was a proud excitement or a nervous one, perhaps some confused combination of the two. He'd never known Lucius so worked up as the night of his Marking. The man had paced the room almost frantically, speaking of plans for the future after Draco had completed the task, plans that saw the Malfoy's back in power, stronger than they had ever been. He murmured assurances that Narcissa would come around, see things their way. He spoke with confidence of how Draco would succeed. But then...

Then his mood had changed. Lucius had looked at him oddly, seemed almost to deflate. He'd stood staring for long, lasting minutes, stopped in his tracks. Draco, tired and dazed by his ordeal, hadn't really had the presence of mind to question, and so had simply sat still and waited.

Eventually, Lucius had sighed deeply, and moved to sit next to him on the bed. His father rarely made gestures like this, considering them far too informal.

"If... if something goes wrong," he'd said at last, quietly, haltingly. "...But _only _if it goes wrong, if you're sure you have no other option, you should... you should go to Severus."

Draco had looked at his father curiously, confused over the hesitant manner in which he spoke. "Professor Snape?"

"He will know how to... help."

And that was all that was said on the matter.

Draco returned to the present with a shake of his head. He glanced down at the Mark on his arm and steeled himself. He didn't intend to ask for help, from Professor Snape or otherwise. How hard could it be? His instructions were simply to get himself as close to Potter as he could without attracting attention, and continue to do so for the foreseeable future. That didn't mean he had to change anything about their regular interaction. An argument or a fight could get him adequately close. Speaking of...

Draco winced a little as a flash of pain flickered in his head. Once again, the curse laid on him was beginning to take its toll, demanding that he go find Potter, evidently deeming their physical separation too long.

Draco sneered. He hated thinking of it like that, as if they actually _missed _each other, but there was no other way to explain that. He could almost time it now; three days away from Potter before he grew physically ill with the distance, and experienced that nagging sensation that he was missing something. He hoped the Gryffindor was starting to feel the side effects as well. Surely, it was only fair...

It was a weird 'link', the Slytherin thought to himself. He was still making a catalogue of its effects on him. Now that he knew of its existence, they were easier to identify. For example, he was starting to remember the dreams that had plagued him these last weeks. Since most of them were about people he didn't recognise, he deduced they must be figures from Potter's memory. How... _unsettling_. He remembered the woman with red hair, and realised with unease that it must have been Lily Potter. And what about the others? The dream that had so disturbed him he'd woken with tears on his face – tears that rightfully belonged to Potter, thank you very much! Malfoys didn't _cry_...

He wondered if they were sharing these dreams, or if they'd swapped. Did Potter dream of _his _parents? Did he see a younger Narcissa and Lucius, or relive Draco's childhood memories? It worried the Slytherin, thinking that. Exactly how much access to each other's thoughts would this 'link' grant...? There were things Draco would die before telling Potter. What if the Boy Who Lived discovered that he'd been Marked? What if he discovered other things, personal things...? Things not even Pansy and Blaise knew about...

Draco bit his lip. Was that possible? Already, their dreams were obviously intermingling – as was their magic, as he'd recently discovered. The night of his Marking, when he'd looked upon his Lord's serpent familiar, he'd thought he could almost hear her hissing words at him. Now he understood why that had so amused the Dark wizard.

Potter was a Parseltongue. Everyone knew it. The hailed Saviour spoke to serpents.

And so, apparently, did Draco.

Not very well, of course. Not yet. At first, the Slytherin had been willing to brush the incident off as a trick of the imagination, a memory changed by the adrenaline of the moment. He hadn't exactly had the chance to test it – until he'd returned to Hogwarts.

Tired, stressed, he'd retired to his bedroom after his father had bid him goodbye and good luck, and thrown himself down on his bed, eyes closed and thoughts wondering. Perhaps he fell asleep for a while; he wasn't sure. He just remembered waking to a voice.

No, it wasn't even that. Someone had been whispering random, fragmented words that sounded strange, punctuated by hisses... But it was so distant, so disjointed that he'd never have been able to identify the speaker.

He'd opened his eyes reluctantly and looked around, wondering if it was Blaise trying not to wake him. The room had been empty. Frowning, he'd assumed it a dream and slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes.

The voice hissed again, so quiet as to be barely audible.

Rather alarmed by then, Draco had looked around suspiciously. He'd seen nothing, though. The only thing that moved besides himself was the little Opaleye model, fluttering from bedpost to bedpost. The creature had become more active lately, and he had to keep reminding himself it wasn't technically _real_. Even so, it was as if he'd acquired a pet bird or something, and he'd found, to his surprise, he'd grown attached to it. Several times he'd had to close the windows before the tiny dragon escaped, and once he'd been forced to spend an hour retrieving the creature from the common room after Goyle had left the bedroom door open. It hadn't been his most dignified moment, he thought, as he remembered himself balancing on a couch trying to coax the Opaleye down from a lighting fixture...

Perched on top of the canopy of Crabbe's bed, the silver dragon had turned its faceted eyes on him and flicked a forked tongue.

_"...human..." _

A shiver had shot straight down Draco's spine and he'd stared at the creature in astonishment. Surely it wasn't... he couldn't have...

It had taken him a while to accept that the model dragon really had spoken. It had taken longer to convince himself that he was the only one to understand it. The others heard it hiss, as it was supposed to, but nothing more. While the Opaleye didn't speak in sentences, or hold conversations – as Draco had witnessed between Potter and a _real _snake – it certainly had some grasp on language; a language that was at least based on Parseltongue, Draco theorised. Academically, this was a fascinating discovery. Did all Parseltongues have limited interaction with dragons? Or perhaps actual dragons spoke more fluently... Was _Potter _aware of this possibility? Maybe _that _was how he'd completed the first task of the Triwizard Tournament so easily...

While Draco's mind had raced along these tangents, questioning the advantages of this discovery, his Slytherin self had worried over the implications of the new magical talent he'd inherited. From Potter, of all people. So magic could traverse this link between them. Was Draco's magic therefore being siphoned towards the Gryffindor?

And what of other things? Would thoughts soon begin to cross the boundaries between them? After that...? What came after that?

Draco bit his lip. He didn't want to know. The only way to avoid any worsening consequences was to get this over with as soon as possible.

With this in mind, he set off in search of Potter.

---

Albus Dumbledore was not entirely sure what to do. It was not such a rare occurrence, thought it _was _unusual for his dilemma to worry him so. Pacing his office, he removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly.

Yes, the Christmas cheer had truly ended. How far away it all seemed; the glitter and glow, the laughter, goodwill. He sighed. But then, even _that _brief respite had been tainted, with that business involving Terrance Boot...

Perhaps he should be used to it by now; the inability to escape the war and its consequences. Every victory they achieved had its drawbacks.

Take his current situation, for example. It had been shortly after New Year that the search for the Horcruxes had finally born fruit, and he had successfully discovered and destroyed the Gaunt ring.

Of course, it had come at a price. Didn't everything, these days...?

Slowly, he raised his hand, allowing the long sleeve of his robe to fall away and reveal the blackening scar that covered his palm, starting at the middle finger. It had already spread since the last time he'd examined it, moving down towards his wrist. He could no longer feel any of his fingers.

His own fault. He'd been stupid. Rash. Irresponsible.

Having set eyes on the ring, set with the rumoured Resurrection Stone, he'd momentarily been transported back to his youth, and the obsession he had once harboured for the artefact. Foolishly, he'd attempted to wear it, totally disregarding its use as a Horcrux. Of course, he had immediately enacted the curse Tom had cast upon the ring, resulting in the current damage to his hand. Returned by the experience to his right frame of mind, he'd remembered his duty and cracked the dark Stone, dissipating the fragment of Tom's soul residing in the heirloom.

At great cost to himself.

For the moment, it was not a noticeable injury. He'd hid it well so far, revealing it only to Severus out of necessity. The Potions Master had been able to brew him a potion that slowed the progress of the magical infection, though he was still working on curing it completely.

Dumbledore suspected it would not be that easy. He knew how Tom's mind worked. When it came to his precious Horcruxes, the destruction of one demanded vengeance, swift and vicious. The curse which afflicted him now was not likely to be curable.

That said, he did not feel ready to die. Perhaps, had things been different, he would have been quite content with his long and eventful life as it was. Perhaps he would have been relieved to rest at last.

He could not afford that liberty now, as things were.

What would Harry do, without him? Oh of course, there would still be the Order around to protect him, but Harry had, in the past, always been kept somewhat separate from its members. He had told himself it was for the boy's own good; an effort at preserving his childhood as much as possible. He had not wanted to expose Harry to the hard truths of war where at all possible, and that meant delaying a real initiation into the Order...

That would have to be remedied, and quickly. He could not leave the war in the hands of his most trusted generals if his most trusted generals barely knew the person they were supposed to be fighting for...

And there were other matters, of course. From the trivial to the all-important. He felt restless, urgent; countless tasks occurring to him that he absolutely _needed _to complete before time ran out.

What about the remaining Horcruxes? Who would continue the search, given that no one else knew? Would Minerva be up to the challenge of Headmistress? And Severus... Severus, who found it so hard to trust... Would he agree to trust anyone else in his place? To whom would he pass on the numerous secrets he guarded? Who would replace him as Secret Keeper to Grimmauld Place? Would Hogwarts be safe without him? What if Tom took his demise as an opportunity to attack the school? Or if parents no longer felt their children were safe...

There were simply too many worries to contemplate. He supposed, in a way, he was lucky. The situation could have been a lot worse, had he died without warning, and had no chance to put these things in order...

Shaking his head, he turned towards the phoenix that perched in his office, absently reaching out a hand to stroke the golden plumage. Fawkes let out a shriek, a sound far different to his usual melodious song.

It was the curse. The phoenix refused to let it touch him, and Dumbledore had given up hope that the legendary bird could heal him.

He supposed he would simply have to accept his fate, and prepare those around him as best he could...

---

Harry felt awful. He had a splitting headache and felt thoroughly sick. Hermione insisted on reminding him that he needed to eat, and would point to the toast or the cereal laid out across the table, but every time he even _looked _at food his stomach churned anxiously and he was forced to stare at his hands until he was sure he had control of himself.

Now and then, he would feel Ginny's hand on his arm and hear her ask the same question over and over again. "Are you okay?"

With difficulty, he resisted the urge to snap back, "What does it _look _like?" and simply nodded at her shortly.

She frowned at him disbelievingly and opened her mouth to say something – probably the customary, "Are you sure?" – but he cut her off by standing abruptly.

Hermione glanced at him. "Where are you going? You still haven't eaten."

It was Ron who came to his rescue. "Leave him alone. He'll eat when he wants to. Honestly. You women..."

Smiling slightly, he nodded thanks to his friend and walked away, trying to ignore the nausea rising in him. Something was wrong. He must have caught something, to feel this bad. It felt like flu, more than anything. Odd, since he didn't remember ever being 'naturally' sick in all his days at Hogwarts. He'd always sort of assumed witches and wizards had an immune system resistant to muggle illnesses.

In truth, he wasn't headed in any particular direction, except perhaps the nearest bathroom. He'd just felt he had to escape the sight and smell of food as quickly as possible, not to mention the well-meaning – but no less annoying – interferences of Ginny and Hermione...

He frowned when he thought of Ginny. Maybe it was just him, but he'd always thought a relationship meant wanting to spend _more _time with the other person – not continue to find escape routes whenever possible. And when they were talking... _surely _he shouldn't be so annoyed so frequently.

Maybe it was just the picture she'd given him, that had somehow managed to freak him out so deeply. He was fixating, that was all. Or as Hermione would put it – he was being a typical guy, complete with commitment issues and all. Really, he should be pleased. Finally, _some _sign that he was normal...

Just because he was going through a particularly unpleasant phase now, didn't mean it would stay this way. Ginny had always been great friend to him, and later a devoted girlfriend. He had to keep that in mind. She didn't deserve the way he'd been thinking of her lately. Hadn't she helped him when no one else had been able to?

Besides. He was pretty sure Ron might actually murder him in his sleep if things went wrong between him and Ginny...

The only reason Ron had accepted the idea in the first place was because Harry had managed to convince him he was really serious, and that it wouldn't be some disastrous fling like Cho had been. He supposed, in retrospect, it wasn't wise to get involved with the best friend's sister. Still, there was little to be done now.

Anyway, it wasn't like he was entertaining thoughts of _breaking up _or anything. He wasn't. He was just...

But he couldn't think of a suitable ending to that sentence. He didn't know what he was.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he glanced around, realising belatedly that he'd been wandering through the halls without paying the slightest bit of attention to where he was going. He sighed and looked back the way he'd come, trying to figure out where he'd ended up, and how. He thought, if he carried on a little, he'd find a staircase that headed in the general direction of Gryffindor Tower.

He was glad it was a Saturday, and he didn't have to worry about classes in the condition he was in. Although...

That said, he thought absently that he felt a little better than only a few minutes ago. Even his headache was easing a bit. Maybe he was over the worst of it.

He was just thinking this with a vague glimmer of hope when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"There you are, Potter."

He closed his eyes in a brief moment of exasperation, then turned to face the aggravating Slytherin. "Malfoy. Not now."

The blonde was stood with his back against a wall, arms folded carelessly over his chest. Harry wondered if he'd been following him, since he would have seen the other boy as he passed. He hadn't been _that _tuned out, surely...

Malfoy straightened up and took a couple of slow steps towards him. Harry tensed, remembering their last encounter and fervently hoping the blonde wasn't about to attack him again. He _looked _like he'd regained his sanity somewhat, but that was never a guarantee with the Slytherin. Unhinged git.

Malfoy suddenly scowled. "I am _not _crazy," he snapped.

Harry blinked. "Didn't say you were."

"You were _thinking_ it."

Taken aback, the Gryffindor wondered if he was really that transparent. "So?" he retorted eventually, glaring.

The blonde sneered and closed the remaining distance between them, coming to stand right before Harry. He had to tilt his head back to meet the Gryffindor's eyes, which seemed to annoy him all the more.

"Look, Potter –"

Whatever spiel of abuse he was about to give was interrupted by a door along the corridor opening. They both glanced towards it in time to see a pair of second year Ravenclaws emerging from the room, give them wide eyed looks and hurry off in the opposite direction.

Harry rolled his eyes and decided they had the right idea. Without another word, he turned and continued towards the Tower.

"I wasn't done!" Malfoy growled, and began to follow.

"Who cares?" the Gryffindor muttered, trying to ignore him.

"Potter!" Annoyed, Draco reached out to grasp the other's arm and spin him around, determined to gain his full attention.

No sooner had his fingers made contact, he felt the sudden burn of his Mark, a split second warning of what was about to happen. Pain screeched through Draco's head, through his body. He cried out and tried to let go, but found it impossible. Potter screamed and threw up a hand to his forehead, staggering.

And then Draco began to see images. Strangely enough, he recognised his own dining room, the great table surrounded by shrouded witches and wizards... In the air above it, two figures suspended near the ceiling... His Lord, at the head of the table, murmuring, _"We are on the verge of victory, my loyal friends..." _

Draco finally managed to yank his hand back, breaking the connection. The vision ceased, sliding from his mind and leaving behind a haze of pain.

Slowly, he realised Potter had slumped to his knees in front of him. He'd seen the same thing, Draco knew instinctively.

So this was the link his Lord had intended...

Draco backed away from the reeling Gryffindor, stunned. He had not imagined this. He had not imagined that _he _would share the experience. Not imagined the pain...

He turned and stumbled hurriedly away.


	9. Precautions

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 9**: Precautions

---

"And you didn't see anything else, Harry?"

The Gryffindor sat in front of the Headmaster's desk, facing the old man while McGonagall hovered anxiously behind him. He shook his head, before wincing at the flare of pain the movement caused. "No. That was it. Do you think it's important, Professor?"

Dumbledore frowned. "Difficult to say, my boy. As far as you could tell, there was no immediate danger present in the vision?"

Harry shrugged. "Well there were the two people hovering over the table. I'm guessing they weren't there by choice..."

McGonagall tapped his shoulder to gain his attention. "Potter, did anything trigger this vision?"

The teenager hesitated. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I hardly claim to be an expert," she mused slowly. "I only thought that something seems to be... _different _about this one. Don't you agree, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore pursed his lips. "I did notice your scar hasn't bled. I hardly think it cause for panic, however."

Harry stayed silent, feeling uneasy. He _could _tell them that, actually, he'd been arguing with Malfoy at the time, but once again he felt reluctant to drag the Slytherin into anything official, although he wasn't entirely sure _why_. He told himself he was just being cautious, knowing exactly how much of a pain Malfoy could be when truly provoked.

Besides, in all likelihood, the Slytherin's presence _had _been a mere coincidence. After all, he'd been pretty freaked out in the aftermath, Harry recalled vaguely. Taken off running down the corridor, the coward...

"Harry, there's something I've been meaning to bring up to you," Dumbledore said at length, reclaiming his attention. "Now seems as good a time as any."

Harry raised his eyebrows curiously.

"It's about the Order of the Phoenix, Harry. It's occurred to me recently that you've been kept somewhat out of the loop – "

"Albus!" McGonagall hissed suddenly, apparently unprepared for this turn in conversation. "Is this really _wise_?!"

"Yes, Minerva, I rather think it is," Dumbledore responded mildly. Calmly, he turned back to the surprised Gryffindor. "Of course, the decision is up to you, Harry, but I would appreciate you attending meetings in the future."

Harry gaped. Surely he wasn't hearing this. He was _never _allowed to attend meetings or know what was going on! "_Really_?!" he questioned in astonishment, sitting forward in his chair.

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, really. As you know, they are held at Grimmauld Place. Seeing as it _is _your house, I feel it's only polite that you're invited, hmm?" He chuckled and adjusted his halfmoon spectacles.

"Uhm, right..." Harry murmured. "Just me, sir? What about Ron and Hermione?"

"Now really, Albus!" The Scotswoman threw up her hands in exasperation. "These are children! Potter's one thing, yes, but to let him take along any friend he pleases..."

The Headmaster paused to take a lemon sweet from the ever present bowl on his desk and pop it into his mouth. "Perhaps you have a point. And it must be said, it seems doubtful Molly Weasley would permit her son to become a member so young... No, I'm afraid I must limit it to you alone, Harry."

The Gryffindor nodded. "Okay. Uhm, when will this be, Professor?"

"You shall know as soon as we do, my boy. It will be soon, I can tell you. Perhaps even in the next few days?" The Headmaster smiled. "If you're sure you're well, Harry, you may go about your business."

The teenager nodded and rose to his feet, hurrying from the room as if afraid Dumbledore would change his mind about allowing him into the Order.

Minerva remained a moment longer, staring at him intently. Eventually, she huffed and shook her head. "I never understand you, Albus!"

And with that, she turned and swept away.

---

"Severus, something has gone wrong."

Just over half an hour later, Dumbledore was once again entertaining guests in his office. In fact, almost as soon as Minerva and Harry had left, he had summoned Severus.

The Potions Master now stood before him with his customary irritated expression. "What are you talking about? What's gone wrong?"

"Didn't you say yourself that Tom was upset about the disrupted link between himself and Harry? The lack of visions?"

"Yes..."

"He's had a vision! And from his description, it was a remarkably accurate account of a Death Eater meeting."

The Potions Master looked shocked. "That's impossible! My Lord said the link between them had been severed. The whole point of his latest plan was to... was..."

The Headmaster nodded gravely, finishing the thought. "Was to create a new link. To continue the visions, and his access to Harry's mind. Is it possible he succeeded? Could we have missed something...?"

The younger man shook his head slowly. "I don't see how... Mr Boot is still in Order custody. As far as we know, no one took his place."

"As far as we know," Dumbledore repeated with emphasis.

"There could be another explanation..." Severus suggested, though he sounded far from thoroughly convinced himself. "I haven't been permitted to attend a meeting in some time. We could have outdated information."

The Headmaster covered his eyes with his hands, tired. "Have we failed again, so soon...?" he asked hopelessly, of no one in particular.

"Perhaps this is nothing, Albus. Perhaps the original link has reopened, now that Potter is over his phase of 'depression'..."

"His scar didn't bleed. That was always a symptom of the link..."

Severus scowled and folded his arms. "I assume Potter knows nothing of these concerns yet?"

"I didn't wish to worry him."

"It may prove impossible to keep from him, if he's to be introduced to the Order."

Dumbledore glanced at him sharply. "Ah. So Minerva informed you of that decision."

The Potions Master snorted. "She mentioned something of the sort. Honestly, Albus, ever heard of _asking _for trouble...?"

"I'm doing no such thing, Severus. You know the situation. The Order will need a figurehead after I'm... gone, and Harry will need to know them, know how things work."

The younger man frowned slightly and shook his head. "If that is what you feel is necessary. I merely thought that with recent... _complications_, we might err on the side of caution."

"We have no choice, I'm afraid..." Dumbledore tapped his fingers absently, troubled. "We'll just have to keep a closer eye on him than ever." He paused for a moment, before sitting up straighter. "Oh. That reminds me. How is Mr Malfoy?"

Severus blinked at the change of topic. Knowing the Malfoys' true allegiance as they did, Draco's sudden trip home had naturally raised their suspicions. Though they had no proof as of yet, it certainly wouldn't come as a shock to learn he'd taken the Mark, and the Headmaster had asked Severus to keep close watch on the Slytherin student, just in case.

"I've seen nothing out of line," he said honestly, shrugging.

"Hmm. Good. Let me know if you do."

"Of course."

---

"No _way_! That's so cool! And _so _unfair!"

"How is it unfair?"

"Why don't _we _get to be part of the Order?"

"Ron!" Hermione elbowed the redhead in the ribs and glanced around the Gryffindor common room. "Don't be so loud."

He looked at her sheepishly. "Sorry. Top secret and all that. But still!"

The girl rolled her eyes and turned back to Harry. "I wonder what made Professor Dumbledore have such a change of mind. I mean, he's never really wanted to let you in on the details, y'know?"

"Yeah, I thought that."

Ron, not listening, scowled. "I bet this is Mum's fault. No way would she let me do _anything _cool..."

Once again, Hermione turned an exasperated look on him. "It's not _supposed _to be 'cool', Ron. It's a war movement. This could be dangerous for Harry. They'll probably expect his spellwork to be above average. He'll have to be able to keep Order secrets. He'll –"

"Hermione. Let me explain to you the concept of 'cool'..."

Harry chuckled slightly and allowed his attention to drift away from his two friends. Instead, he studied the other Gryffindors around him, noticing Lavender was still making eyes at an oblivious Ron. Colin appeared to be checking the film in his camera and Seamus seemed to be playing a game of Exploding Solitaire. A singed eyebrow suggested he was losing.

His eyes drifted towards the stairs of the dormitories, just in time to see Ginny descending. He summoned a smile at her appearance as she headed towards them.

She leaned down when she reached him and pressed a kiss against his mouth, her red hair falling into his face. Then, completely ignoring the perfectly empty armchairs nearby, she slid herself into his lap and made herself comfortable. Harry, immediately feeling awkward, struggled for a moment to find somewhere to put his hands that wouldn't cause the glowering Ron to hex them off. He noticed Hermione's lips thinning in disapproval, probably at Ginny's oh so blatant show of possession.

"So what we talking about?" the younger girl asked brightly, oblivious to the slight shift of atmosphere her presence had caused.

Ron snorted. "Harry's gonna be an Order member."

"_Ron_!" Hermione snapped. "Stop blurting that out to everyone in earshot!"

"Sorry..."

Ginny had stiffened at his announcement, and now turned wide eyes on her boyfriend. "You're _what_?"

"Dumbledore wants me to start going to the meetings. I finally get to know what's going on. Good thing, right?"

"But..." She bit her lip, hesitating. "Just you? How come?"

Harry shrugged, not sure what else there was to say.

Hermione's eyes glinted as she looked at the other girl. "Well, really, it's only to be expected. The Order isn't about to go giving secrets away willy nilly. And if _Ron and I_ aren't allowed to go, I doubt anyone else besides Harry will be."

In his lap, Ginny went tense for a moment, staring at the brunette. Finally she offered a smile and nodded, though the movements seemed a little stiff. Confused, Harry glanced at Ron, wondering if his friend had noticed the shimmer of tension and understood it. If so, he would have to explain it, as Harry felt distinctly clueless.

The redhead, however, was oblivious.

---

Meanwhile, in his room, Draco was mulling. He still had the remnants of a headache from his encounter with Potter, which was what had driven him to the solitude of his bed rather than the crowded common room.

He was not sure what to make of the whole thing yet. He certainly hadn't expected it to... well, hurt. He hadn't thought he'd be privy to whatever punishment his Lord inflicted on the bloody Boy Who Lived, let alone made to share it. He hadn't agreed to that.

But what could he do about it now? It wasn't exactly something he could negotiate or back out of – no matter how troublesome the doubts in the back of his mind.

Sighing, he turned on his side, to find a small pair of faceted eyes staring back at him inquisitively. The Opaleye quirked its head like a small bird, shivering its silvery wings and flipping its tail.

Draco smiled despite himself, unable to resist. He'd never had a pet as a child – mainly because he'd never possessed the patience to care for another creature besides himself. But the little dragon suited him. He didn't have to worry about feeding it, grooming it, or anything else.

Slowly, he slid a hand across the quilt towards the dragon, beckoning gently. Sometimes, it would decide to come to him, perching on his wrist or shoulder for a few tentative moments, perhaps hissing brokenly in its draconian language, before fluttering off again.

Now was one of those times. It scuttled across his bedside table and onto his pillow, edging cautiously closer until its tiny snout touched his fingertip.

_"...Humanfriend..." _the Opaleye stated in recognition.

Again, Draco smiled. He held himself still as the little creature slipped and slithered over his hand and arm, not so much as hesitating to cross over his Mark, eventually reaching his body, where it dug its miniscule claws into his shirt and came to settle on his ribs.

More than once, he'd tried talking to it, wondering if he now possessed the ability to not only understand, but communicate in the reptilian language. In truth, he couldn't be sure one way or another if he was succeeding. There was never anyone around to inform him if he was still speaking English or Parseltongue, and the Opaleye didn't seem to be one for conversation. It would either ignore him completely or cock its head as though confused.

The blonde decided to try again, if only because he had nothing better to do. He thought for a moment, before concentrating intently on the dragon, hoping that was the key to switching into Parseltongue – or whatever language dragons spoke.

Consciously keeping his words short and simple, he asked, "Name?"

The Opaleye blinked at him and flicked its tongue.

Not yet deterred, he instead pointed to himself and said, "Draco."

_"Dragon." _

Draco froze, unsure if that was an intentional response. Carefully, he sat up, scooping up the silver creature before it could fly away. It fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, gripping his thumb and middle finger for balance.

With deliberate movements, and making sure the dragon was watching, he again pointed to himself and repeated, "Draco." Then, reversing the movement, he pointed at the Opaleye. "Name?"

_"Dragon." _

Blurting out the first thing that came to mind, the Slytherin said, "You can't be called Dragon! You need a real name!" It almost made him laugh, to be having such a ludicrous conversation.

It cocked its head as if to ask why.

Draco shook his head. "Fine, I'll name you..." He cast his mind about, searching for something suitable which, hopefully, the dragon would understand. He really should have done this before, he told himself, but then he'd had other things on his mind.

He found it a more difficult task than first imagined. Avoiding gender specific names – since he had no way of telling if the thing was male or female, or even if it _had_ a sex, being only a model dragon after all – he was left somewhat at a loss. Biting his lip, he gazed down at the Opaleye thoughtfully.

Apparently growing restless, the dragon looked about and fidgeted, before suddenly flapping its bat-like wings and gliding from Draco's palm, coming to rest back on his bedside table, where it padded across to settle once again on the framed looking glass Pansy had given him, its claws skittering on the reflective surface. It had become almost a nest to the dragon, where it slept every night and napped in the day.

Draco blinked as inspiration struck him. He grinned. "Mirror," he murmured, and decided it was the perfect name.

---

Potions on Monday was the first lesson of the day. It was not his favourite way to start the week, Harry thought resentfully, as he held his sleeve over his nose and mouth to try and filter the foul smelling purple fumes that were rising from his bubbling cauldron. Next to him, Ron was peering dubiously at the noxious liquid, which – judging by the rest of the class, most of whom had already completed the task – was _supposed _to be a shade of moss green and scentless.

Their mishap was apparently attracting attention, too, for within moments Snape was sweeping towards them with his customary scowl.

"This," he snapped, "is the reason I do not permit Gryffindors to work together! Weasley, get over there with Zabini. Potter, work with Malfoy. Do it again, _correctly _this time."

Gritting his teeth, Harry cleared away his things and left Snape to drain the cauldron and diffuse the purple smoke. Scowling, he reluctantly made his way over to where the Slytherin was standing, looking far from impressed. Grey eyes narrowed in annoyance at his approach.

"Thanks a lot, Potter. Can't you and the Weasel brew even the simplest potions without making a spectacle of yourselves?"

"Whatever, Malfoy." He slammed his bag onto the desk, nonplussed. "Shall I get the ingredients?" Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed for the front of the room and the store cupboard.

Ron was doing the same thing. Hidden from Snape's sight, they rolled their eyes at each other, miserable.

"Damn," the redhead muttered. "Thought we might just get through one lesson without having to stomach Slytherins."

"Me too," Harry muttered, as he took a handful of beetle shells and began to weigh out the correct measurement. He didn't make much effort to be accurate, his temper getting the better of him. Was it his imagination, or was Malfoy even _more _of a pain lately? He seemed to be everywhere, always there, his sole purpose in life to drive Harry to suicide...

Ron snorted. "I bet Snape makes us stay late to finish these bloody potions..." he grumbled, haphazardly collecting his ingredients without bothering to weigh them.

"Oh great," Harry groaned. Then he paused. "No. He'd have to make the Slytherins stay late as well, since we're working with them. And God forbid _that _happen..."

His friend chuckled.

They were unfortunately interrupted by the arrival of one such Slytherin. Malfoy appeared in the doorway, his arms folded impatiently. "I was wondering what was taking you so damn long. Should have known." He cast a scornful look at Ron.

"Bugger off."

Harry sighed and turned to the blonde. "I'm perfectly capable, Malfoy. Why don't you –"

"Not fast enough. I want to get this over with sometime today."

Edging past him, Malfoy began to deftly identify the components they'd need, selecting and weighing them much faster than Harry had been able to manage. If it had been anyone else in the world, Harry would have been forced to appreciate the skill.

Shaking his head, he moved half-heartedly to pick up some of the ivy leaves, at the same time the Slytherin reached for them.

Now, while Harry would certainly strive to avoid any kind of contact with the blonde git, he did not expect the fervency of the reaction he received from the near brush.

Malfoy snatched his hand back with such force he stepped back clumsily, bumping into Ron. Scandalised, the redhead shoved the boy away, looking repulsed that he'd had to touch the Slytherin.

Harry blinked, shocked, as Malfoy rounded on him furiously, pointing a trembling finger back towards the classroom. "Go _sit down_, Potter! I can do this myself!"

He might have argued, but saw no reason to put himself out, especially on behalf of the bipolar Slytherin. Shrugging, he turned and walked away, praying for the lesson to come to a swift end...

---

They were just packing away when Snape called out, "Potter. Stay behind."

Harry froze, a litany of obscenities running through his mind as he cursed the Potions Master with imagination. Ron clapped him on the shoulder in sympathy as he passed and Harry watched him go mournfully.

When the last student had left the room, he turned towards Snape sullenly. "I finished the potion –" he began to defend himself.

The man sneered. "Yes, and I'm sure your success was entirely down to _you_, wasn't it Potter?"

Harry flushed angrily. Still, they were both aware that Malfoy hadn't let him do a thing for fear he'd do it wrong.

"Anyway," Snape went on, "that's not why you're here. The Headmaster tells me I am to... escort you to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible."

Harry stared in astonishment. "What, _now_?"

"No, I thought we'd have tea and toast first – yes, _now_, Potter! I wouldn't expose myself to your company any longer than strictly necessary, so do hurry up."

And with that, he strode past the Gryffindor, who had to scramble excitedly to keep up.


	10. Morals

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 10**: Morals.

---

Harry stepped unsteadily out of the fireplace on Snape's heels and winced slightly as a flare of headache caught him off guard. He dismissed it quickly, since the pain didn't come from his scar, and busied himself looking around, somewhat surprised to see how crowded the room he'd entered was. The last time he'd been here, Grimmauld Place had been much quieter, inhabited only by Sirius, Kreacher and the occasional visitor.

Now, it bustled. He saw a dozen faces he recognised and many more he didn't, all of them talking and even laughing. He saw Tonks and Moody standing near each other, the former chattering at a rapid pace as her hair continuously altered shade, while the latter cast her exasperated glances, his magical eye swivelling in annoyance. Kingsley was present, looking slightly separate from the others, exuding a sense of formality as always.

McGonagall had already arrived, and Snape moved to join her. He appeared to mutter something to her which earned a frown from the Scotswoman. Before she could respond, however, Remus emerged from the cluster of Order members and joined the two Professors.

Harry cast his eyes about in search of someone he could go talk to. Momentarily caught up in memories of Grimmauld Place, he half expected to see Sirius. It took him aback to realise he wouldn't, and he stood a moment as the pit of his stomach turned cold.

A flash of orange at the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned just in time to be met with the familiar but unexpected sight of Fred and George Weasley.

He blinked at them in astonishment as they converged on him, grinning widely and clapping him simultaneously on each shoulder.

"Harry! How've you been, mate?" asked one of them cheerily. He thought it was George.

"Uhm, good," he answered automatically. "What are you both doing here? Isn't this an Order meeting?"

The other twin beamed. "Sure is. What, dear brother, would that imply to you?"

"Well, Fred, since only Order members attend Order meetings..."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "You?! _You _two are Order members?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Does Ron know about this?"

Fred sighed mournfully. "No, unfortunately. Mum said we couldn't –"

"– tell, in case ickle Ronikins got jealous. Of course –"

"– we're relying on _you_, Harry, to let this little secret slip."

George grinned wickedly, his expression perfectly contradicting the angelic tone of voice he used as he said, "Doesn't do for brothers to keep secrets, now, does it?"

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "You're both cruel," he informed them, amused. He knew exactly how _that _revelation would go over with his redheaded friend. Ron would hit the ceiling, thoroughly unhappy with the notion that he was being left out. Ginny wouldn't be too happy either, he realised as an afterthought.

"No, but seriously," he went on, "how come you're here? I mean, what do you... _do_?"

Fred placed a hand over his heart. "Harry, I'm hurt. You don't think we can be useful? Helpful?"

The Gryffindor folded his arms and looked deadpan. Of all the words he might have used to describe the Weasley twins, 'helpful' wasn't one of them.

George chuckled. "Okay, okay. Let's just say that the Order finally came to its senses and recognised –"

"– our unique talents," Fred finished triumphantly. "Just think, Harry. If You Know Who ever finds out our war effort is using products from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, he'll up and have a coronary. You may never have to face him again!"

George looked at his brother sharply. "Ooh. Good idea, that. We should bring it up at the meeting."

Fred nodded sagely.

Harry, feeling thoroughly lost, stared at them in confusion. "They're using your... products? As in... your jokes and stuff?"

One of the brothers held up a hand. "Well. Kind of. They're using _alterations _of our products, or things they commission. Y'know, things we can't really sell to the public but which are very handy to a war movement."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Obviously..." he muttered faintly.

George began ticking things off on his hand. "Extendable Ears are in _very _high demand, for one. They're better than eavesdropping spells in some cases, because you can disguise their magic, and it's not as easily disrupted. Uhm, what else..."

"The Smoke Bombs," Fred chimed in helpfully. "Pop one of those off in a room full of Death Eaters and they'll be so blind they'll end up hexing each other by accident. Doesn't clear for ten minutes, and there's no counter spell. They're proving _very_ useful in raids."

"Moody and Tonks said they're going to recommend their use to the Ministry, for the Aurors."

Harry was impressed. He continued to listen as the twins rattled off a list of their inventions and the various uses the Order was putting them to, some of which were highly creative. He found himself inordinately glad the twins were here. When he'd first entered and surveyed the room, he'd felt distinctly like the only kid in a room full of adults, out of his depth. But finding Fred and George here, friends close to his own age, he was more at ease. They were listened to, apparently respected, given a purpose. He hoped that boded well for his own presence here, hoped he wouldn't be dismissed as a child to be sent from the room while adults talked.

"Don't forget the Morpheus Mints," George was saying proudly. "They're the newest addition to our arsenal."

Harry blinked. "What are they?"

"Glad you asked!" Fred cried excitedly, rummaging in his pocket and extracting a handful of tiny white tablets. "Very inconspicuous, as you can see. Come in pepper- or spearmint, whatever your preference."

"Basically," George continued, "they're sleeping tablets. Very potent, though. Instantaneous."

"Why not just use a spell?"

"Well, for one they last longer. And of course there's no counter. Just gotta wait until they wear off. Can't be traced in the bloodstream, either, and don't leave a magical signature."

Harry was beginning to notice a trend in the twins' explanations. More than once they'd pointed out the importance of their inventions leaving no trace of magic. He was starting to wonder why this was such a priority, and was about to ask when a voice cut across their conversation.

"_There_ the two of you are!"

They turned in time to see Mrs Weasley hurrying towards them, holding a stack of six or seven thick books in her arms and attempting to peer over the top of them.

George sighed. "She's been tidying again. That means –"

The books were shoved into his arms, knocking the breath from him as they collided with his chest. Fred chuckled at his brother, only to be quickly shut up as his mother flicked her wand over her shoulder, and another stack of books which had been floating obediently behind her zoomed forward. He caught them with a grunt, wincing.

She rubbed her hands together, removing the dust. "Now, I want you to take these up to the library on the third floor. Don't just put them anywhere, mind. There's –" She stopped, catching sight of the third teenager. "Harry! Oh dear. Oh. I'd completely forgotten you were coming today..."

"Uh, hi Mrs Weasley."

She seemed to regain herself. "It is good to see you, dear. But you're always so _thin_. Why don't I make you something while you're here?"

Fred rolled his eyes. "You're not here to cook, woman! This is war!"

She levelled a glare at him and pointed wordlessly towards the stairs.

The twins, in sync, lowered their heads dejectedly and turned to follow her directions. Over his shoulder, George called, "Coming Harry?"

Harry hesitated, looking around and wondering if he'd miss anything if he went with the brothers.

Mrs Weasley smiled. "Things won't start for a while yet. We're still waiting on people. Besides, you'll be called if the meeting begins while you're upstairs."

"Thanks," Harry said with a smile, and hurried to follow the brothers.

---

Harry had never visited the library in Grimmauld Place. He'd known of its existence from his time spent there, but never had a reason to explore it.

The room was bigger than he'd expected. In fact, he wondered if it had been enchanted to appear larger on the inside. As he stood at its centre, looking up in wonder at the massive shelves all around him, the high ceiling, the long isles formed by the books, he realised it _should _be impossible for the house to contain any such space. And yet here it was.

"Shocking, isn't it," Fred commented as he passed, moving to place his pile of books on a nearby table. "Who knew a secret order could be so boring?"

"I had no idea this place was here," Harry admitted. "God, Hermione would be in heaven." He moved towards a bookshelf, eying some of the titles. Some, he realised quickly, were actually written in Latin, and he wondered in surprise how old they were. Of the ones he could read, the common topic appeared to be Dark magic. Troublingly, a few appeared to contain instructions on how to use it, and from these he could even sense a faint glimmer of foreboding magic. He assumed these were possessions of the Black family. Most, however, were books of Defence, detailing counter curses and healing spells at length. He knew instinctively that these were books dealing with a higher grade of magic than anything found at Hogwarts.

"So Harry," Fred stated, recapturing his attention. "How are you and our dear sister getting along these days?"

Harry blinked, unsure how to respond. He wasn't used to being checked up on. Ron would never ask that question, preferring to pretend the whole situation wasn't happening rather than acknowledge that his friend and sister might have something between them that was more than platonic.

"She is a lot to handle," George was saying knowingly. "We've been wondering if you're up to the challenge."

"I... Uhm... we're fine."

"Good to hear, good to hear! No arguments of late then? Everything going smoothly?"

"Well..." Harry paused, tripped up by the strong sensation of being interrogated. All of a sudden, all he could think about was his own irrational irritation with Ginny, the various bickering fights they'd had, and what he'd decided was his own aversion to commitment.

His expression must have showed something of his thoughts, however, for the twins' mock sternness dropped away, and George placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Harry, relax! We're only playing."

"None of our business, that's for sure," Fred added, smiling.

Harry tried to laugh, brush the moment off as they had done. But he felt his casualness was strained, and so, apparently, did they.

George jerked his head towards the door. "Come on. Let's go see if this thing's ready to go yet."

Relieved, Harry moved to follow him. He rubbed his eyes, behind which pain flickered on and off. But as they reached the hallway, the twins stopped to look at him intently.

"I know our Gin, Harry," George said, sounding remarkably serious for once. "Don't let her... go too far. Don't let her bully you into anything. And the same goes for –"

"– Ron. He can be a right git when he wants to be," Fred confided. "And he's always been biased when it comes to Ginny."

Harry nodded hesitantly, still trying to decide what, exactly, they were warning him of.

"Boys!" Mrs Weasley's voice rang up the stairs. "Hurry up!"

"Duty calls," George said, winking.

"We have a war to fight, don't you know?" Fred added, and together they escorted Harry to his first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix.

---

"We had some our best experts examining the wards on Malfoy Manor," Kingsley was saying in his calm, confident voice. No matter that he was talking about Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort, Harry thought his quiet baritone was just naturally reassuring. "From a safe distance of course, out of range of detection. No good came of it, however. I'm afraid that, for the moment, the protection around the Dark Lord and his headquarters remains impenetrable."

Next to the Gryffindor, George snorted and muttered loudly, "Good job, too. What were they planning if they _did _break it? Shove Harry through the door with a quick, 'Good luck kiddo!'...?"

Mrs Weasley glowered furiously, leaning forward to glare down the long table they were all gathered around. Harry ducked his head, embarrassed, as the other adults turned their attention on him, some looking sheepish, others merely quizzical.

The meeting had been in progress for a good half an hour, so far, and Harry had been mostly silent. He was content to listen and absorb the information being bandied back and forth between the adults. Besides, a sudden shyness had come over him, and he couldn't have contributed much to the conversation if he'd wanted to.

"Anyway," Kingsley went on, with a stern glance for the twins. "Though the Order is almost positive that the Dark Lord has taken refuge within the Manor, we cannot prove it short of forcing Veritaserum down Lucius Malfoy's throat."

Some distance to Harry's left, Moody grumbled deep in his throat. "Some of us wouldn't be too averse to that option, I don't mind mentioning..."

"That may be, but I'm afraid it wouldn't hold up with the Ministry. Malfoy is being extraordinarily careful to cover his tracks this time. He still appears in public as if he has nothing to hide. His business contacts and allies in the Ministry itself seem somehow untouched, despite his stay in Azkaban."

"Hn," Moody grunted. "Evil never dies..."

"I do hope you're wrong, Alastor," murmured Dumbledore, who had arrived at the house while Harry had been upstairs. "The point is, we are currently unable to _prove _any wrongdoing on Lucius's part. Perhaps if we were, it might be possible to weaken Tom's stronghold at the Manor. That is obviously his refuge, and if it were suddenly confiscated right out from under him..."

"Easier said than done," Kingsley responded, shaking his head. "Even discounting the wards placed on the Manor through Dark magic, the Malfoy heritage is something to be reckoned with. You might recall that even when Lucius was imprisoned, the Ministry had no authority over the Manor and were unable to seize it. It's all tied up with inheritance and blood magic."

"What about Draco?"

Harry didn't realise he was going to say the words until they were out of his mouth. He bit his lip in surprise and heat flooded his cheeks as all eyes turned on him. It was as if the name had simply sprung to the fore of his mind and he'd been compelled to speak the errant thought aloud. But no, he realised vaguely that he'd been thinking of the Slytherin from the first moment the name 'Malfoy' had been mentioned.

Dumbledore peered at the Gryffindor from across the table. "What about young Mr Malfoy, Harry?"

His embarrassment doubled as it occurred to him that he had no answer to that. He'd spoken impulsively, and wasn't even sure why. "Uhm, I'm not really sure, Professor. Just that you said blood magic. I mean, couldn't you use Malfoy in some way...?"

"Don't be a fool, Potter," came Snape's scornful hiss. Harry looked towards the Potions Master, where he sat next to Remus. "Let's say we _were _willing to throw morality aside and put the son in danger simply to get at the father –"

"Oh, don't start that!" Moody interrupted, earning himself an incredulous glare from the younger wizard. "You make it sound like Malfoy Junior would be an innocent victim in all this. Ah, I tell you he's a Death Eater in the making if I ever saw one. Harry's got good instincts. Could be the basis of a plan, that..."

"It would never work," Kingsley chipped in, sounding regretful. "If you're right, and Draco Malfoy intends to follow the Dark Lord in the war, he would doubtlessly find some way of warning Lucius if we involved him in anything. And that, in turn, would only mean we've lost the element of surprise."

"But –"

"Enough!"

They all jumped in shock as Dumbledore's command boomed throughout the room. The Headmaster had risen to his feet and was regarding them all sternly over the top of his spectacles. He did not look impressed.

"Enough," he said again. "Listen to what you're saying. Has there not been enough manipulation of children in recent times? Are we to stoop to the same tricks as Voldemort and his Death Eaters?"

They were silent, perhaps quelled by the sound of the Dark Lord's name, or perhaps by the sensation of shame Dumbledore's words carried.

"No," the Headmaster answered himself. "We will find some other way. Now. Let's hear the other reports. Remus?"

Harry tuned in and out of Remus's account of his stay with a werewolf pack up in Chester. Instead, his mind seemed caught up in the previous conversation, preoccupied with the idea of the Slytherin. He had no idea why Malfoy was playing on his thoughts so much, but supposed it must be due to the strangeness of hearing him and his family discussed in the formal context of an Order meeting. It felt weird.

Absently, he placed a hand over his stomach and tried not to grimace. He wondered if he was coming down with a bug, because not only had his mild headache increased to a stabbing pain behind his eye, he was suddenly feeling violently nauseas. He hoped fervently he wasn't going to be sick, and thought wryly that that would be just the _perfect _lasting impression to make at his first meeting...

---

Draco practically fled the Charms classroom as soon as he was able. He bolted through the corridors, for once not caring to maintain his public appearance of calm dignity. Down the stairs, through the dungeons and into his common room he pelted. He reached the Slytherin bathrooms just in time to purge the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

A migraine had already taken root, so severe and sudden that he actually found himself gritting his teeth to keep in a scream. On his knees, the tremors of sickness passing through him, Draco groaned and lowered his head into his hands.

It was the curse, he was sure. Potter must have gone somewhere outside of the school to bring the symptoms on so swiftly, as they'd only just seen each other that morning. Where the _hell _had he disappeared to?!

A new worry was beginning to form in Draco's mind, one which he didn't like to contemplate too deeply, and yet couldn't help doing so.

If Potter's physical distance brought on the sickness so strongly, what happened if... well, if he went _too _far away...? Would it get worse the further apart they were? And _how _far was _too _far, exactly?

Draco didn't know, and didn't want to. His father had never explained _this _little aspect of the curse! What if Potter suddenly took it into his empty head to go _abroad_, Merlin forbid! If his current reaction was anything to judge by, he was beginning to wonder if he'd even survive such a separation.

He decided he couldn't afford the luxury of finding out. He'd just have to complete his mission quickly if he was going to avoid suffering like this every time one of them left the school.

Red droplets speckled the white tiles beneath him, and he realised belatedly his nose was bleeding. In that moment, with the migraine driving steely claws into his head and his stomach heaving yet again, Draco had no compunctions in handing Harry Potter over to the Dark Lord.


	11. Revelations

**Sakuri**: I'd like to thank my gorgeous girlfriend for working with me on the next section of plot for this story. Love you honey! xD

---

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 11**: Revelations

---

Harry was concerned. Seriously so.

It wasn't the occurrences at the Order meeting which concerned him, however, though some of the revelations there had genuinely shocked him. He hadn't, for example, known that Voldemort was holed up in Malfoy Manor, and privately thought it ridiculous that no one seemed able to do anything about it. He hadn't known Remus was working with a werewolf pack, dangerous as the mission was. He'd talked to him about it before he left Grimmauld Place, and discovered he was trying to convince them not to join the forces of the Dark Lord. He hadn't known – though he'd suspected – that Snape was still an active spy for the Order, attending those Death Eater meetings he was permitted to attend and reporting back to Dumbledore.

But it wasn't any of these things which caused his current sense of worry. His dilemma, in comparison, might even have seemed trivial, but it gnawed at Harry until he was a mess of guilt and dread.

Something had happened.

There he'd been, innocently sitting with Ginny, Ron and Hermione on a stone bench in the courtyard. He'd been busy fending off their eager questions about the Order meeting, since Dumbledore had extracted a promise from him not to share the secrets. Almost a week had passed since he'd attended it and he hadn't yet broken his word, but his friends still lived in hope.

"Oh, come on, mate!" Ron protested in annoyance. "We tell each other everything! You can't keep something like this from us..."

"I have to, Ron," Harry replied helplessly, shrugging.

"But _why_?! You always break rules, what's so different this time?!"

Hermione sighed and placed a calming hand on the redhead's shoulder. "Maybe Harry's right. This isn't just a harmless school rule he'd be breaking. It's _war_."

Ginny flicked her hair and took hold of Harry's hand. "But it's not like _we'd _tell anyone, Hermione."

"That's not the point –"

"Harry will tell us, won't you, Harry?"

He looked at her helplessly and shook his head. "Ginny, I just said no. I _can't_."

She glared at him, obviously annoyed that he wasn't complying. Luckily, however, he was saved from further argument by the arrival of Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbot and Zacharias Smith. Ernie had come to ask Hermione's opinion on an essay they were writing and the two groups soon fell into easy conversation, to which Harry listened to only distantly. He liked being in the presence of people, but found that lately he was less inclined to actually join in the conversation. It was better to let it flow overhead and simply listen.

As Ernie and Hermione discussed some obscure theory of Potions, and Ron talked about Quidditch to anyone who'd listen, Harry allowed his mind to wonder. He studied the three Hufflepuffs, wondering why Zacharias was with the other two. Ernie wasn't particularly fond of the acid-tongued boy, and on many occasions they had half-joked among themselves that Zacharias should really have been Sorted into Slytherin.

Curiously, he studied the oblivious Hufflepuff, who had joined in Ron's debate over who would win the Quidditch Cup this year. It made him more animated than usual, Harry thought privately. He was used to the blonde being quite... stuck-up, for lack of a better description, usually hovering at the side of social gatherings like this with his nose disdainfully in the air. He rarely deigned to talk to Harry, and the Gryffindor had always felt somewhat rebuffed by him. Now, however, he appeared to be all caught up in the conversations going on around him. A flush of colour infusing his pale face as he argued with Ron, and Harry, fascinated, felt a warm sensation expand in his chest. Without warning, he found himself wondering what else would make Zacharias blush like that, and thinking that he should do it more often. It made him look a hell of a lot more attrac–

Harry slammed on the breaks of that thought, stunned by where his train of thought had carried him.

"Harry? Are you okay?"

Wide eyed, he glanced at Ginny and managed a nod. "Yeah. Yeah, fine." He realised slowly he was sitting almost ramrod straight and his grip on her hand was entirely too tight. He let go as if she had the plague. "I have to go."

"What? Where –?"

But he was already moving, nodding to a surprised Ron and Hermione and ducking past Zacharias without making eye contact. Confusion and embarrassment filled him as he fled the scene. _What _had just happened? Had he really been looking at the Hufflepuff boy like... like _that_?! No. No he was just overreacting. That was it.

Unbidden, Malfoy's jeering comments of a few days ago sped through his mind. _I'd have to start wondering if he was batting for the other team, so to speak... _He could practically _hear _the Slytherin git drawling the words right now. No, damn it! He was wrong, he was _wrong_! He had to be!

_Go fuck the Weaselette, for all I care, and try to explain why you only ever want to do it from behind!_

Harry winced as the words replayed in his head. He hurried back inside, barging past a pair of students who stood in the entrance way. No. There was no way Malfoy knew him better than he did himself. He was wrong. Of course he was wrong. Just because he'd had some errant, inappropriate thought about Smith didn't mean he was... that he was...

Well. Like _that_.

What was he thinking? Of course he wasn't. Wouldn't he know by now if he was? He'd never looked at Ron like that, or any other boy for that matter. He had a girlfriend for God's sake! He _couldn't _be gay, no matter what Malfoy said.

He just couldn't be...

---

Draco hadn't believed, until now, that his already low opinion of Potter could fall any lower. But of course this _was _Potter he was talking about. The Boy Who Lived to make Draco's life a bloody misery...

The Slytherin had watched in disgust as Potter suffered his little panic attack and fled the courtyard, then trailed after him reluctantly. All the while, he could feel waves of the other's panic and denial breaking over him, setting his nerves on edge. It was the curse that made it so, and its infernal _bonding _affect. He was granted detailed and desperately unwanted access to the Gryffindor's thoughts and emotions. While he didn't receive as clear a read as someone using Legilimency – thank Merlin – he tended to get the gist of whatever Potter was thinking or feeling at any given moment in time, if he concentrated. He'd made the useful – if somewhat distasteful – discovery in the last few days and planned to use it to his full advantage.

Currently, he didn't even have to focus on Potter. The Gryffindor was radiating his anxiety over everyone he came into contact with. Draco, following a little distance behind the other, wanted to clamp his hands over his ears against the sense of nervous fear, which to him translated like some high pitched, metallic screeching.

Honestly, Potter was being a bit melodramatic anyway, he thought scornfully. So he'd perved at Smith. Who cared? Surely this couldn't be the first time he'd realised his own preferences. He was dumber than even Draco gave him credit for, if that was the case. No wonder he performed so abysmally in lessons. The boy lived in a whole other world...

Draco had to sneer at his choice for a first crush, though. _Really_, Zacharias Smith... Even Potter could do better. Smith was nothing but a jumped-up wannabe Slytherin. Worse! He was a jumped-up wannabe _Malfoy_. Draco had seen the way the younger boy imitated his best haughty poses and deadpan glares. He would spout about his pureblood heritage whenever Draco or one of the other Slytherins were within earshot, probably hoping to impress them. And most of the school knew he didn't exactly like Potter.

It was pathetic, frankly.

The Slytherin, thinking about it, decided that he should be quite insulted, really. Potter had a thing for someone who was nothing but a pale imitation of Draco himself. In truth, he could have lived with the Gryffindor fancying _him_ – which could even prove entertaining, he thought, with no small amount of maliciousness – but to pass him over in favour of second best was just a slap in the face.

Still, it wouldn't matter for long. Potter wouldn't be in the state of mind to worry about Zacharias Smith or anyone else in a moment of two.

Draco sped up as the Gryffindor entered into a crowd of other students, swiftly closing the distance between them. For once he didn't call out to mock or challenge the other, knowing he had to be subtle. All he had to do was come up behind Potter and touch him. The Gryffindor wouldn't see him or know what had happened, and everyone else would be so shocked when their Saviour started screaming and twitching that Draco could slip away without anyone ever noticing his presence. Perfect.

Potter, oblivious to impending danger as ever, was only a few steps ahead of him. No one was paying them particular attention. All he had to do was reach out and brush his fingers over the other's uncovered arm, and was already bracing to do just that when something caught his attention and almost stopped him dead.

Potter was thinking about _him_!

---

Harry was confused. How else was he supposed to feel, really? He walked aimlessly through the corridors, his thoughts drifting. At the very least, he had calmed somewhat since his initial panicky reaction. Now he was simply at a loss.

He didn't want to go back outside to where his friends were probably still sat around talking. They would want to know why he'd run off, and he didn't feel up to making excuses right now. He didn't want Ginny gazing at him in concern or asking awkward questions. It would be hard enough looking her in the eye at all. And anyway. Zacharias might still be with them...

He _still _wasn't sure what exactly had happened back there. Well. He _was_, kind of, in a technical sense. That didn't mean he understood it. Okay. So he'd had a brief – the briefest – moment of... of attraction... to another boy. That didn't mean anything. Right? Teenagers were supposed to be curious about things like that. So he'd heard. But he could still be straight and normal. Course he could. He had Ginny to think about. Ginny, his loving _girl_friend – who had to count for something, surely. That thing with Zacharias... Well, that was just a onetime incident. Anyway, in his defence, the Hufflepuff boy _did _have something slightly girly about him, with his blond hair and pointed features. No one could say there was anything particularly _manly _about him, that was for sure...

Harry realised he was now grasping at straws, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

This was all Malfoy's fault anyway, he decided firmly. Malfoy, who'd first put the idea in his head when he'd voiced some offhand innuendo about Harry's sexuality, only to fixate on it ever since. He'd thrown the accusation into almost every interaction they'd had since then. Honestly, Harry was beginning to think it was wishful thinking on the Slytherin's part...

Perhaps that thought was verging into hazardous territory, but he was already caught up on it.

It had, from time to time, occurred to Harry to question whether Malfoy really lived up to his somewhat loose reputation. Oh true enough, the Slytherin somehow seemed to be known for his many sexual exploits with the females of Hogwarts – but Harry had never actually come across any girl who could truthfully say she'd slept with him. Most assumed Malfoy only dated other Slytherins, but Harry had also noticed that the blonde never seemed to have time for anyone other than Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. Certainly he never kept girlfriends.

And why Harry had kept mental note of these facts, he wasn't entirely sure – but the point was, there was something suspicious about Malfoy's reputation. It was too... neat.

The git probably just wanted someone else to accuse in order to hide his own shameful secret. Yeah, that was it. That _had _to be it. Malfoy was the bent one, not him! The more Harry thought about it, the more he convinced himself it made perfect sense.

Harry had to give him credit. The sly bastard had genuinely worried him for a while there. It was sort of impressive, in a twisted way. But now that he'd figured it out, he could feel himself calming. Let the Slytherin whinge and point fingers and pretend he was leading the idyllic bachelor lifestyle. Harry knew the truth, and Malfoy would just have to–

Someone brushed roughly past him, and the Gryffindor's world contracted with pain.

---

It was worse than last time. Draco bit back a scream as the Dark Lord's magic surged triumphantly through him and into the Gryffindor. For a split second, his mind was filled with confused images and sounds. He saw flashes of the Manor, always filled with dark robed witches and wizards. He saw Severus raising his wand toward a man and woman suspended in midair, casting Cruciatus. He heard the insane, high-pitched laughter of the Dark Lord, relentless, continuing until Draco wanted desperately to clamp his hands over his ears to stop them bleeding.

And then a new scene: somewhere Draco didn't recognise, some rural little village. It was night, but the darkness was illuminated by countless searing curses. People ran about in every direction, screaming in terror, as Death Eaters descended on them. Muggles, obviously, and entirely helpless in the face of the vicious onslaught.

Before Draco's horrified eyes, a woman dropped to her knees and threw her arms around the two children who clung to her, just as a flash of poison-green light surrounded them. The three slumped into a pile, stone dead and glassy eyed, still clinging to one and other.

The Slytherin recoiled, shocked, and the vision ended.

Just as he'd predicted, Potter had let out a cry and dropped to the floor. The surging mass of students surrounding them pushed Draco out of the way to get to the fallen boy, and Draco went with the movement easily. He staggered backwards, reeling and wounded, and with barely the sense about him to turn and walk away. But teachers would be arriving soon, if only to find out what the commotion was about. He didn't want anyone to remember he'd been here.

Still, he didn't get far. He turned the corner and realised abruptly that he wasn't going to make it all the way to the Slytherin common room. Instead, he slipped into the first empty classroom he came across.

There, Draco collapsed.

He tried to catch himself on a table, but his legs simply refused to hold his weight. Instead, he crumpled inelegantly to the floor, his head cracking against a chair as he went down. Once again his nose was bleeding from the agonising pressure in his head, and blurry vision showed that his shirt was already covered in scarlet stains.

He didn't know what was happening. Was it supposed to work like this? Surely something had to be wrong. The Mark on his arm was burning away maliciously. Scared, he lowered himself further until he lay prostrate across the classroom floor. The ceiling seemed to be swimming before his eyes, and he remembered distantly that it was sometimes dangerous to lie down or go to sleep if you'd sustained head injuries. Did a vision count?

He couldn't have helped himself anyway. Tremors of exhaustion shot through him, and he had just enough time to wonder if this was what dying felt like, before the relief of unconsciousness swept up to claim him.

---

It was hours before he woke.

He didn't know where he was at first, or what had happened. It was only as he sat up stiffly, his blood encrusted shirt sticking horribly to him, that memory returned – and then he only wished he could go back to sleep.

Potter. The vision. The _pain_.

He winced and tried to push the thoughts away. Instead, he busied himself examining his ruined clothing. "_Scourgify_," he muttered, waving his wand over the length of his body and watching in satisfaction as the red-brown stains disappeared. He'd bled all over the floor, too, he noticed, and cast the spell a second time.

He didn't want to think about the fact that he was currently cleaning himself up in the disastrous aftermath of his mission, but he couldn't help it. Something had gone wrong, he was sure of it. He could have died. Melodramatic as that sounded, he somehow _knew_, deep inside him, there was truth to it. He could have died all alone in this classroom, covered in his own blood and sweat and tears.

He cast a resentful look at his forearm, where the Dark Mark lay concealed beneath his sleeve, and wondered if the Dark Lord had known of the danger to him when he assigned him the mission. He remembered the cold laughter that had resounded throughout the vision, and decided firmly that, yes, his Lord must have known all along that something like this was going to happen...

Carefully, wincing every now and then, Draco picked himself up. His head still pounded, but he thought that was from the knock he'd given it when he'd fallen.

Had his father known about this aspect of the curse? He couldn't have. Ruthless Death Eater he might be, but Lucius Malfoy would never knowingly put his son in danger. In that, Draco had faith.

And if he _had_ known...?

Did it matter? One way or another, he was stuck in the situation now. Unable to stay away from Potter out of fear for his health, unable to get too close without fear for his life.

Terror shook Draco as the true implications of this thought settled in. He shuffled his way back to the Slytherin dorms, aching from head to toe, one thought blaring over and over again in his mind:

What the hell was he going to do now...?!


	12. Though Much Is Taken

**Sakuri: **I'm sorry that any real Harry-Draco interaction is slow in coming (in all honesty, I'm as disappointed as you guys) but in order to keep everyone in character, I think it's going to be something of a slow journey. Don't worry though, I finally have a clear idea of how they _are _going to make first contact, so it shouldn't be too much longer now.

Thanks for the patience.

...I hope I haven't slaughtered this chapter and the scenes in it... Let me know...

---

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 12**: Though Much Is Taken

---

Headmaster Dumbledore covered his eyes with one hand, exhausted. Harry had just been escorted from his office by Minerva, after giving his account of the latest disturbing glimpse into the mind of the Dark Lord, and now Severus stood staring at him intently. He didn't meet the younger man's gaze, knowing he would be expected to provide answers if he did.

And he couldn't give them.

He didn't understand why or how Harry was receiving visions again, when they had thought that problem avoided. Something had slipped past them, he was realising. Slipped past both his and Severus's careful vigilance. But _how_?! And when?!

"Albus, something must be done."

He bowed his head even further. "I know, my boy, I know. But what would you suggest?"

The Potions Master scowled, obviously at as much of a loss. "We know it is not the same link as before causing the visions. The Dark Lord implied the scar-link between him and Potter was unsalvageable. He _must _have succeeded, somehow, in creating a new one."

"I'm aware of that, Severus –"

"But don't you see?" the other interrupted, striding forward and placing his hands on the desk between them. "He has to have found someone to replace Mister Boot as his contact _inside this school_. Someone or something inside of Hogwarts is causing them, Albus!"

Dumbledore's eyes widened as the implications of this statement sunk in. "If that is indeed the case... then Hogwarts is no longer safe for Harry."

"When has it ever been?" the Slytherin muttered sardonically, folding his arms. "The boy defies all logic. He's perfectly safe when at home with his powerless muggle relatives – but when he's inside the most warded wizard dwelling in Britain? Oh, bring on the Death Eaters..."

The Headmaster gave him an exasperated glance. "Please be serious, Severus. We must figure out who Tom has recruited to give him access to Harry. If we cannot discover their identity... I cannot, in good conscience, allow Harry to roam the school freely."

"And what are you thinking, Albus? Lock the boy in his room?" The Potions Master was perhaps intending to sound scathing, but could not entirely keep the hopeful note from his voice.

"That is one solution, yes. Another might be to remove him from the school altogether."

"_Expel _him?!" Now he truly did sound scandalised.

Once again, Dumbledore looked annoyed. He was doing that – losing his serene mask of joviality and patience – more and more lately, as the curse of the Horcrux spread deeper and tore at the wizard's ancient strength.

"No, of course not. If it comes to it at all, I would move him to an Order safe-house."

"And his lessons...?"

"Harry would still have access to Minerva, Remus, and of course ourselves, my boy. Not to mention other Order members who could no doubt contribute to his education. He would have access to any study material he was in need of, and I'm sure young Miss Granger would not hesitate to pass on any extra assignments he was in danger of missing..."

The Potions Master stared with narrowed eyes. "You sound like you've given this quite a bit of thought."

"Hm?" Dumbledore glanced up at him innocently. "Oh, no. It's simply an idea to consider for now. First we must do all in our power to unmask the traitor in our school."

The Slytherin raised an eyebrow and murmured only, "Quite."

The Headmaster sighed and rose to his feet. "Now, my boy, I've been thinking –"

But that was as far as he got. The old wizard gasped as something clenched painfully in his chest. All the air seemed to flee his lungs, and he stood there struggling to breathe for long moments.

"...Albus?! _Albus_!"

Severus's stunned expression was the last thing he saw before the floor rushed up to meet him.

---

Harry had no idea what was happening. He'd scarcely been released from his latest interrogation in the Headmaster's office when McGonagall had swept into the common room and once again pulled him away without a word of explanation. He'd had just enough time to explore the Gryffindor dorms and determine Ron, Hermione and Ginny must still be outside somewhere. He'd wondered if they'd heard about his episode in the halls, and had just decided to go find them – Zacharias or no Zacharias – when McGonagall had grabbed him.

Now they fled along the corridors, the Scotswoman's strong fingers clamped painfully around his arm, Harry almost running to keep up with her. A sense of panic was expanding in his chest, growing bigger every time she refused to answer one of his gasped questions.

"Professor, please! What's going on? What's wrong?!"

"Hurry _up_, Potter!" She gave his arm a twist – perhaps by accident – as she put on another surge of speed, forcing him to run in earnest.

They pelted down stairs and through hallways, the paintings and tapestries of Hogwarts blurring past them. It began to dawn on Harry, cold and creeping, that they'd passed no one. The school was deathly silent.

Belatedly, he realised they were heading for the Hospital Wing, and something clenched anxiously in his stomach. McGonagall pulled him sharply to a halt before she let him enter, holding him by the shoulders and looking him closely in the eye.

This close, he could see she'd been crying.

"Be quick and be strong, Potter."

He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but something in her face stopped him. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to walk through the door she was now pushing him towards. Something small and young in him was shrinking back from whatever was to be found in the Hospital ward. Perhaps McGonagall saw it in his face, as her grip on him tightened until he winced.

"Go," she ordered, and shoved him forward.

---

He did not understand what he was looking at, to begin with.

The ward had been emptied, with the exception of a small cluster of people at the far end. Unnoticed, Harry began to walk along the rows of beds. He seemed to be moving underwater, the whole world in silence and slow motion. Or a dream in which he wanted to turn and run from something awful, but instead was drawn mercilessly onwards.

Kingsley was present, looking like some proud statue in his regal purple robes. He didn't move a muscle, not an inch, with his hands clasped neatly before him and his dark, handsome face like a mask; a sentinel at the foot of the bed. For some reason, his presence only struck Harry as a dire omen. He shivered, dread opening up like a chasm beneath his feet.

Madam Pomfrey moved to one side, her expression grim, and Harry saw beyond her to the person in the bed. His throat closed and all sound was suddenly made impossible, not out of grief but of terror.

It looked like a stranger. A body, not a person. There was no familiarity there, no light, life or quiet, steady power. The garish robes – usually so endearing with their vibrant colours and childlike prints – now seemed only irreverent. They clad a skeletal figure, the flesh waxen and grey.

"Headmaster..."

His whisper finally attracted the attention of the adults. They looked at him with grave, ashen faces and he wanted to be sick. The urge to run and never look back was almost overwhelming, even Gryffindor bravery deserting him in that moment.

Only Snape had not acknowledged his appearance. The Potions Master was leaning over Dumbledore like the black presence of death itself, his ear to the old man's lips as he strained to listen to something being said. He didn't deign to look at the Gryffindor.

"What happened?" To Harry it sounded as if someone else had asked the question, from a very great distance away, but it was enough to gain Dumbledore's attention.

The old wizard stopped speaking and turned his head, the ghost of a smile flitting across his papery features. He gestured and Snape, scowling, helped him to sit up a little straighter.

"Ah, back again so soon, my boy."

Harry went to him, pushing past the anxious Madam Pomfrey. He didn't know what to do, hovering uselessly. This close, he could see the Headmaster's left hand lying limply on the mattress, and almost recoiled despite himself. The skin of the appendage was blackened and cracked as though burned, looking more like a withered claw than human fingers. He knew, without having to look, that the blackness spread all the way up the arm. And he could guess from the laboured, shallow breathing that the strange deadness probably reached and spread throughout the other's chest.

As if reading Harry's frantic thoughts, Dumbledore nodded minutely. "I'm indeed riddled with the Horcrux's curse. I'd hoped to have longer to prepare you, Harry, but Poppy tells me the curse has already infected my lungs and is heading swiftly for my heart." He sighed as though this were a great inconvenience.

Harry shook his head. "Curse? Horcrux?" He was ashamed to hear his voice break. "Professor, please, what's happening to you?"

The soft blue eyes, devoid of their spark, looked at him almost pityingly. "I'm dying, my boy."

The Gryffindor did draw back then, sliding seamlessly into denial. He looked around at the other adults, waiting expectantly for one of them to refute the claim and reassure the old wizard that all would be fine soon enough. There was nothing Madam Pomfrey couldn't heal, and even Snape had his uses. Yet even as he thought these things, he was met with that same pitying stare from the mediwitch, and both Snape and Kingsley looked at him expressionlessly.

"No... No, this isn't right..."

"Harry –"

"_No_!" He pulled away as the Headmaster reached out to him. "I don't... I don't understand. It's just a curse. It can be fixed. Right?"

Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "It cannot. I was foolish and brought this on myself. I'm just so terribly sorry that you must pay the price."

"M-me...?"

"I've had time to come to terms with this. While it galls me to leave so much undone, the time has come for me to lay down my wand and rest at last. But it is to you many of my responsibilities will fall."

Before Harry could respond, Snape gave a scornful sneer. "This is ridiculous. Potter has yet to take on the responsibility of cleaning out his potions cauldron. You can't expect this of him..."

Dumbledore sighed, only for it to turn into a cough that nearly chocked him. Harry was horrified to see flecks of red and black appear on his lips and beard, and backed away as the mediwitch barked out a spell to stabilise the old wizard. He spent a few moments breathing carefully while the others looked on in suspense.

Finally, looking exhausted, he beckoned Harry back towards him. "Sorry, sorry, my boy. Now, listen to me. You too, Severus. There is no more time for past hostilities. Harry, there are those who have their doubts that you are ready to bear the burden I must lay upon you." The Potions Master snorted. "But it makes no difference. The fact of the matter is that there is no one else to bear them."

"Albus, that is not true –"

"Quiet. No more protests, Severus. I have the time to say these things only once, and both of you must _listen_."

"_Fine_," the Slytherin hissed bitterly, and fell grudgingly silent, hunching his shoulders like some overgrown vulture.

"Harry. As I said, I'd hoped to leave you better acquainted with the rest of the Order, but as they say, death waits for no man. We must simply make do. As figurehead and Secret Keeper for the Order, my absence will leave something of a power vacuum. Such an occurrence is to be avoided at all costs. The Order would crumble and would soon be discovered without the protection of a Secret Keeper. You –" He paused to give another wheezing cough, his thin chest heaving. "You must take my place."

Harry blinked, sure he hadn't heard right. "Me?"

"Every other candidate has split loyalties. Minerva must do what is best for the school – her school, now. Mister Shackelbolt and Mister Moody have the Ministry to think of. The Weasleys have their family, which is both their greatest strength and greatest weakness. And you, Severus, before you interrupt, have your work as spy. It would be folly indeed to make you Secret Keeper –"

"Not me then!" the other wizard hissed, sending a vicious glare at Harry. "But anyone else! Anyone at all. Not Potter. Albus, _think_!"

"I _have _thought! This is my decision, and you must trust me one last time. Both of you."

Harry was shaking his head numbly. This was insane. Dumbledore couldn't be asking what it _sounded _like he was asking. He just couldn't. He found, amazingly, that he agreed wholeheartedly with Snape.

"He's right!" he blurted out without warning. "I can't do this! I've only been to one meeting! I'm too young! I –"

"Harry stop. You could give me a hundred reasons not to consider you for this, but I assure you I've considered them all at least a dozen times. No, this is not the perfect solution. If we had the means to achieve perfect solutions there would be no war to worry over."

"But... I _can't_! I don't know what to do!" He shook his head desperately, and tears he hadn't even realised he'd shed splashed onto the bed.

"Ah Harry... I am sorry for dropping all this onto you, my boy. If there were any other way..." Dumbledore regarded him sadly. "You must listen to Severus and Minerva, and try to trust them. _Both _of them."

"Albus..."

The ancient wizard turned his tired gaze on the Slytherin, and Harry was suddenly sure that a world of information passed in silence between them. They had an understanding he could only envy, and he wondered in disbelief how he'd never noticed it before.

"This is my will, Severus," Dumbledore murmured, his voice no longer louder than a whisper. "I trust you to see it through. All else but this matter is taken care of. Do not let me leave with doubts..."

The Potions Master bowed his head, his black hair concealing his face. "Very well..."

Relief was visible on the wizard's lined face. He closed his eyes, half smiling. Another coughing fit struck him, and Madam Pomfrey hovered nervously, but it was weaker this time and subsided quickly. Harry rubbed his eyes furiously and stared at the floor as he waited for the Headmaster's next words.

There was silence.

His head shot up, fear streaking through him. Dumbledore had gone still, his expression fixed in place. He didn't look real anymore. Without his customary aura of energy and gravity, he looked like nothing but a cheap imitation. A husk.

But the most terrifying prospect was that this _was _real, and that sense of gravity would never again exist.

Harry threw himself forward, grasping the glaring yellow robes desperately, not caring that he felt the wizard's curse-blackened flesh crackle beneath his hands.

"No! No, not yet!" Wide eyed and frantic he searched the other's face for one last spark of life and magic. "Don't leave me yet! No... _Please_, I'm not ready...!"

Hands took him by the shoulders and pulled him back. He went with them without much resistance, too shocked to fight. Kingsley kept hold of him tightly as the Potions Master stepped up to the bed. He stood there for long moments, motionless, and then gently reached out and closed the Headmaster's dulled blue eyes for the last time.

Harry turned away, appalled by the sight of Severus Snape grieving.

He brushed a hand over his own eyes and began to walk away, his throat aching, wishing desperately for escape and isolation.

"Potter, wait."

He froze at the Potion Master's toneless voice, not turning.

"There is one more matter..."

---

Draco didn't know what was happening or why, but he knew he had to find out.

The whole school had suddenly and without warning been confined to their common rooms. That only happened when there was some great emergency, like the time Sirius Black had broken into the school, or the many incidents in which Potter had nearly gotten himself killed. Draco wondered what the prat had gone and done now, and how it would impact on him.

He didn't have the energy for something major today, after the ordeal of the vision.

He'd quickly run out of patience with sitting around listening to Crabbe and Goyle's gormless speculations on what was going on, or putting up with Pansy's incessant fidgeting and Blaise's equally infuriating bubble of calm. Annoyed and anxious – since he could feel Potter's strong emotions all too clearly through the infernal link they shared – he'd retreated to his room, pulled his bed curtains shut and cast a spell that would keep his roommates from bothering him.

There, he'd hatched the makeshift and somewhat chancy plan he was currently enacting.

The mirror Pansy had given to him lay in his lap and he stared fixedly at the glass. It was not his reflection he was seeing, however, not even the flattering one it was _supposed _to show. Instead, he looked down upon a rather blurry image of a school corridor.

It hadn't been too complicated making the mirror into a scrying glass. No, what had truly tested the limits of his innovative talents with magic was making the mirror into a two-way communication device. He wished fervently he had someone to confide in, because an achievement like this simply should _not_ be allowed to pass without bragging.

"Go right," he ordered, and knew with eerie certainty the words were not said in English. He spoke in Parseltongue – or whatever the draconian equivalent was – and was becoming quite adept at slipping consciously into the other language. The scope of the mirror obediently swung to the right as elsewhere in the school the model Opaleye heard his command and obeyed.

Once again the Slytherin felt a pang at the thought of no one else recognising his genius.

Finally, movement in the scrying glass caught his eye and his heart rate sped up excitedly. "There! Follow Potter. Don't let him see you..."

---

Ron knew there was something wrong as soon as he saw Harry step through the portrait hole. His friend looked... dead, for lack of a better description. He'd never been so white, with big dark circles under his eyes, which were luminously bright and wide. His hands hung loose by his sides, and he looked around at the curious Gryffindors as though he didn't recognise a single one. Ron's guts gave an unpleasant twist.

"Harry?" That was Hermione, her voice a careful mix of caution and concern. They had seen this Harry only once before and thought – hoped – _prayed_, for Merlin's sake! – that they would never have to see him again.

He looked exactly as he had the night Sirius had died.

"Wh-what's happened, mate?"

Green eyes focused on him and he felt the terrible urge to draw back. There was too much intensity there in that dry brightness. It scared him, for a brief instant.

And then Ginny was there, oblivious to the dangerous intensity, reaching out to touch him. Ron wanted to grab his sister and pull her away, wanted to yell at her that Harry wasn't Harry right now, couldn't she see that?! But there was no need. The other boy recoiled from her touch as though burned, shoving past her and bolting for the dormitory stairs.

Ron took one look at Hermione, and then the two of them hurried after him.

The first thing they heard was crashing. They entered the bedroom just in time to see his trunk go sailing across the room and collide with the wall, possessions scattered everywhere. Hermione let out some small noise of fright, and Ron didn't blame her. Harry looked positively alarming with his wand making slashing motions through the air and his wild, wordless magic wreaking havoc with objects all around them. The bed curtains were shredded before their eyes, his books tossed about the room and pages strewn. Stunned by the spectacle, Ron couldn't bring himself to react at first.

It was only as he heard his friend's hoarse and broken voice that the power of action returned to him.

"How could he do this to me?!" Harry fairly screamed, sending his trunk hurtling the length of the room yet again. "How could he just _leave _me with all th-this-s...?! _Bastard_! I _hate _him!"

Instinctively, Ron strode towards the other and grasped him by the shoulders, shaking hard. For one awful moment he felt sure Harry was about to curse him into next week, but then he saw a flicker of reason return to the green eyes and felt relief.

Hermione was with him then, reaching out and firmly prying loose the boy's wand to tuck away in her own robes. Frankly, Ron didn't think the confiscation would do any good, knowing as he did the other's tendency towards accidental wandless magic when he was in such a state.

"Harry, speak to me mate! What's going on? Who's left?"

"What? Can't you tell?!" A dry barking sound escaped him, something between a laugh and a sob, and Ron felt sickness creeping coldly into his stomach. "Can't the whole _school _tell by now?! Haven't you noticed the change?"

"Harry, what change? What are you talking about?!" Hermione was almost crying with worry.

He regarded them both with dull eyes and said plainly, "Dumbledore. He's dead."

"_What_?!"

Tears sprang immediately to Hermione's eyes as she stared at him, her mouth opening but no questions coming out.

Ron's numbed hands fell away as Harry shook him off, moving to begin pacing the room like some caged animal. He was talking in an undertone, not really to them, although they hung on his every word in horror.

"He'd gone – he's _dead_ and he _left _me! How am I supposed to do this? How could he even _ask _me...?! Snape was right..."

They looked at each other helplessly, not having a clue what he was talking about and feeling entirely incapable of reaching him.

He whirled on them suddenly, a sort of feverish fury colouring his cheeks and making green eyes far too bright. "And you know what else?! He _never _wanted me! One more vision he told them. _One_ more and I'm getting kicked out of here like some... some stray that's too much _fucking_ trouble!"

"Harry, you don't mean that..."

"It's true! Snape and Kingsley are going to take me somewhere 'safe' if it happens again, all on D-Dumbledore's goddamned orders!"

Hermione was shaking her head, obviously distraught. "Harry I don't understand. Why are you so angry at him? What did he do?"

But Ron thought he understood. At least a little. Harry didn't hate Dumbledore for whatever he'd asked of him, he just wished he did. Better to hate than acknowledge the sudden gaping _nothingness _that had appeared beneath their feet as the immense presence of the Headmaster, around whom they had all orbited to greater and lesser degrees, blinked out. They were abruptly in freefall, scrambling to rediscover purpose and priority, hopelessly lost in these first awful moments of confusion.

Let Harry blame Dumbledore for now, Ron thought to himself grimly. Grief was a destructive force. Better it be taken out on those who were safely beyond reach...

---

Draco listened quietly to the revelations and felt the world shift.

He didn't yet know _how_, exactly, it had shifted, only that it had. Things had changed, and needed reassessing. _Potter _had changed. He could feel it through the link, sense the steely barriers being erected at the core of him. Dumbledore might be out of the equation now, but Draco felt oddly sure the old coot had left something in his wake that might prove even more formidable. Potter had been nothing this morning – doubtlessly would have gone on being nothing – but suddenly the Slytherin could sense grief and fury and fear acting as catalysts, stirring up something in him that had not existed before.

Draco wanted more than anything to further explore the change taking place in the other, but he was not yet skilled or subtle enough in the use of the bond. Potter might sense him, and in the mood he was in right now he would probably tear him apart before thinking twice...

He glanced down at the scrying glass and muttered, "_Accio _dragon." An indignant chittering sound could be heard as Mirror was picked up by his spell and began to zoom back towards the Slytherin dorm rooms.

Draco pursed his lips as another realisation came to him: he was being held in stalemate.

He was still faced with the dilemma of whether or not he was going to continue his mission for the Dark Lord. By now, an instinctive fear of going anywhere near Potter was beginning to take root as his body and mind protested the trauma of another vision. It would kill him eventually, he felt almost sure – something his Slytherin survival skills were rebelling against quite heartily.

However, even if he _did _decide to throw his own personal safety out the window in a fit of fanatic loyalty to the Dark Lord, and attempted to induce another vision in Potter, he'd only pull it off the once and then the Gryffindor would be swept away to some safe house or another, out of his reach for good. That, too, would no doubt be considered his fault and he'd be punished accordingly.

And where did that leave him? There was no more hope of protection from Dumbledore. He didn't dare write to his father, or follow his advice about going to Professor Snape. The Potions Master was doubtlessly a loyal Death Eater – why else would Lucius recommend him?

But that meant the only key player left was Potter...

Draco shivered at the thought.


	13. The First Step

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 13**: The First Step

---

Snape cast the Secret Keeper spell, with McGonagall acting as witness. Harry had wanted to know why _she_ couldn't be the one to use any kind of magic on him, since _she _was the Headmistress now – he'd said that part snidely and with great relish as the Potion Master's face darkened with fury.

He'd half expected more ceremony during the process, but it was over almost before he knew it. He blinked up at the two Professors, wondering if he was supposed to feel any different now that he was the sole guardian of such important knowledge.

"What now?"

Snape sneered. "Now nothing, Potter. Just try and keep your mouth shut and don't bring a score of Death Eaters down on us."

Harry glared back. "Besides you, you mean?"

McGonagall stepped between them before it could escalate any further. "If it becomes necessary to introduce a new member into the Order, it will be up you to inform them of our existence and whereabouts, Mister Potter. Only you can share this information. No one else."

Something occurred to him then, something he probably should have thought of earlier. "But what... what if I do it by accident?"

"Excuse me?"

"What if... Well, the link between me and Voldemort... the visions... What if he sees it in my head?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "It can't be done. Even Legilimency can't steal the information a Secret Keeper protects. The _only _way it can be obtained is through the Keeper _willingly _sharing it."

Harry nodded, relieved. That didn't sound too bad.

The new Headmistress looked at him sternly. "That does _not _mean you can go telling anybody anything you feel like, Mister Potter. Order secrets are to be _kept _secrets – including your new found status as Secret Keeper. No one must know. Not even Mister Weasley and Miss Granger."

He sighed and sat back in the chair in front of her desk – previously Dumbledore's desk. It made him uncomfortable being in the circular office without the Headmaster's presence, or the soft sounds of Fawkes ruffling his feathers in the background. The phoenix had disappeared from the school with the death of his master, and Harry grieved his loss too.

"I kinda guessed I wouldn't be allowed to tell them," he muttered, shrugging.

"Good," McGonagall responded shortly. "Severus and I will decide who you tell and when."

"So I don't get any say?"

The Potions Master curled his lip and drawled scornfully, "I'm sorry, Potter. I forgot you were such an expert on Order procedures. But of course, how _dare_ we presume to know more than a teenager who has _no _experience –"

McGonagall held up a hand for silence, looking tired. "Enough, both of you. Harry, we have respected Albus' decision insofar as making you Secret Keeper. Perhaps there is even some wisdom to that. But you cannot expect us to hand over all authority to you."

Harry's spine stiffened indignantly. "I don't –"

"Then you will understand the need for myself and Severus to remain your advisors when it comes to Order business. During the next meeting, whenever that may be, we will update you on all information we've gathered." She sighed. "Until then, Mister Potter, I suggest you return to your friends and concern yourself with being a teenager, and not the leader of a war."

The Gryffindor shook his head and stood up, wearing an expression that rivalled even Snape's in disdain.

Easy for her to say.

---

Harry spent the rest of the day unsure what to do with himself. Everywhere he went, everything he did, he felt out of place. Lessons agitated him as he convinced himself he should be doing something more important than suffering through the History of Magic. His friends' company grated on him as he listened to them discussing trivial matters like exams and school trips. He wanted to yell that there were more important things to be worried about. It had only been a few days since Dumbledore's funeral. Had they forgotten already?!

Tired and a little disgusted, he'd retired to his room to brood. Ron and Hermione left him to it, familiar with and wary of the mood he was in right now. Alone, he wandered the room in circles, too restless to sit still.

Some of his possessions were still scattered across the floor from his rampage the other night. Near the foot of Seamus' bed something glinted silver, and he looked down to see a lone twenty pence piece. The sight of the muggle money brought back memories of the Secret Santa game Dumbledore had organised, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Had he known he was dying then? Harry wondered bleakly. Had he known, and done nothing more to prepare them than play stupid bonding games?!

A knock on the door dragged him from his mental rant, and he turned in time to see Ginny enter the room. Checking a sigh, he regarded her quietly and waited for her to speak.

Funny, that it had been Sirius' death that first brought them together, but in the wake of Dumbledore's he only found he wanted nothing to do with her. The reasonable part of him hoped it was just a phase that would pass. He was depressed and more than a little stressed – of course he didn't want to be dealing with the often petty troubles of a relationship. When things got back to normal, when he allowed himself to relax a little, then his affection for the youngest Weasley would no doubt return to what it had been.

Another part of him, the deeper part, whispered he was only fooling himself.

"Harry, are you okay?"

He scowled at such a tactless question. Did he _look _okay?!

Ginny bit her lip. "Sorry. I just thought... I don't know. I want to do something to help you. I've been really worried..."

She did look genuinely upset, and her concern softened him. He allowed it as she moved to hug him, enveloping him in warmth and the perfume scent of her hair. He allowed her to press her face against his neck, though he didn't hold her in return. He even complied as she took his hand and led him to sit with her on the bed.

"Please talk to me," she whispered. "Ron says to leave you alone, that you'll talk when you want to, but... I thought you might want someone to listen, y'know?"

Privately, Harry thought Ron knew him a lot better. There was nothing he wanted less than to discuss the things that were currently worrying him. What _could _he talk about anyway?! He was bound to secrecy on almost every topic.

"Look, forget it, Ginny. I'm fine. Honest."

She sighed. It was obvious she didn't believe him. "Well, if you ever change your mind, I'm here." She reached up and hooked an arm around him, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I know we haven't spent much time together, just the two of us. But we will, okay? We'll go to Hogsmeade or something, and spend the day together. We'll –"

Harry just wanted her to shut up. He couldn't stand to listen to her making dreamy, romantic plans for the two of them. He didn't know what else to do, and so leaned abruptly forward and kissed her, hard.

There was nothing gentle or caring in the gesture, and for a moment he felt her stiffen and start to pull away from him. He ran his fingers through her hair and she gave in, lying back against the pillows and pulling him with her.

He wanted this, he told himself. It was what he _should _want. Boys wanted girls, wanted to date them, spend time with them, fuck them. Ginny was perfect. She was pretty and athletic, intelligent and funny. Half of Gryffindor fancied her, and envied him as her boyfriend. This was what he was _supposed _to be doing, damn it all!

So why wasn't he enjoying it...?

The bedroom door slamming open made them spring apart, and Harry blinked through askew glasses at Ron glowering in the doorway.

"Fuck's sake, Harry!" The redhead stalked across the room, looking as if he intended to physically drag them apart. "Ginny, get out!"

Harry untangled himself and stood up, his face burning with embarrassment and frustration and shame. "Don't bother. I'll go."

"No! Come back here –"

Harry fled.

---

It was late evening, and supper was still being served in the Great Hall, its enchanted ceiling showing grumbling black clouds. Harry wandered in with no real urge to eat, but unsure where else to go. He took a seat on his own, picked up a piece of buttered toast and cast his gaze about the other House Tables.

Zacharias was sat at Hufflepuff, so he avoided looking in that direction as much as possible. Instead his eyes landed on Cho Chang, and he began to wonder absently if things would be easier if he was with her and not Ginny. Maybe he'd just found the wrong girl, and not the wrong gender. That could explain things, right? He studied the girl surreptitiously, trying to imagine being with her as he'd just been with Ginny.

Distantly, it occurred to him that he was being a jerk.

Angry with himself, he turned his back on Zacharias and Cho, only to find himself glaring instead at the Slytherin table, where Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini were sat conspicuously huddled together, whispering. Harry blinked as he realised the third member of their anti-Trio was missing. Where _was _Malfoy anyway?

He tried to think back to the last time he'd seen the blonde and couldn't remember. The Slytherin git hadn't tried to cause any kind of trouble for him in the last little while, so Harry had allowed him to fall to the back of his mind, forgotten. He wondered – knowing as he did about the Malfoys' link with Voldemort – if that had been a mistake.

And all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere as he sat staring at Malfoy's empty seat between Parkinson and Zabini, an overwhelming sense of anxiety welled up inside him. Sweat beaded his forehead and his breath came too fast, making him wonder wildly if he was having a panic attack, and if so why. What was happening?! Desperately, he tried to keep himself under control, clueless as to what had come over him. It felt like the sickening fear he'd once experienced in Third Year around the Dementors.

Almost as if the emotion had some outside source.

He stood up and stumbled from the Great Hall, trying in vain not to attract too much attention and fighting not to reject the food he'd just eaten. Outside, he rested his back against the corridor wall and cast his mind about desperately for an explanation as to what was happening. Fear was breaking over him in waves, swelling and receding, but with no obvious source. His heart hammered painfully, and a restlessness so strong came over him that he stood for a moment merely jittering.

Then, without knowing where he was going or why, he began to run.

---

Dark clouds hung low in the sky, full to bursting. The air was heavy and warm with humidity, as if a storm was coming, and high up among the towers of Hogwarts wind howled. The view from the Astronomy Tower platform showed the black lake churning below, only just visible without the illumination of moon and stars. The Forbidden Forest was a hulking shadow on the horizon, shapeless and intimidating.

Draco, swaying where he stood, looked out upon this darkness and allowed the fear to roll over him yet again. Shuddering, he took another swig from the bottle of Firewhiskey dangling loosely in his left hand. He'd originally come up here with his broom, intending to fly until his mind went blank, maybe even have a few sips of alcohol just to steady his nerves a little.

But now his Nimbus lay discarded and forgotten on the other side of the platform without ever haven taken to the sky, and the Firewhiskey was almost gone. He was too drunk to fly now even if he'd wanted to.

He took a step away from the ledge upon which he'd stood, stumbling slightly, and sat down on the cold stone. It was beginning to rain, pinpricks of cold water making him tingle all over, but he didn't bother casting any spell that would protect him. Let the storm do its worst; his mood certainly couldn't plummet any lower.

A quiet scratching sound made him look down, and he saw Mirror clinging to the roughened stone floor. The wind was buffeting the tiny dragon, creeping under his silver wings and threatening to blow him away. Big pearlescent eyes looked pleadingly up at the Slytherin.

Taking pity on the tiny creature, Draco sighed and scooped him up, depositing him into his lap where he immediately burrowed beneath his shirt. He hadn't meant to bring the dragon up here with him, but Mirror had tagged along without him noticing, as had become a very inconvenient habit of late. Ever since he'd sent the creature on his first mission as spy, Mirror was no longer content with staying put in the dorm room.

Absently stroking the trembling bundle under his shirt, Draco upended the bottle of alcohol for the last time, drained it, and bowed his head as the liquid burned all the way down to his stomach.

He hoped this would work...

The idea had come to him in a burst of inspiration only minutes ago, and before he could think better of it he'd put it into motion. Maybe that wasn't such a wise decision, considering all the Firewhiskey he'd consumed, but it was done now and he could only pray for the best.

What if he'd done it wrong? He was pushing himself to the limits lately with innovative magic. He'd lost track of how many times he'd invented or mutated an existing spell just in the last few weeks alone. If he got out of all this alive, he was seriously going to consider doing something of the sort for a living...

So here he was, hoping that he knew enough about the link to have used it properly without giving too much away. He wished he'd been sober when he'd done it, but it was too late to worry about that now. His only comfort was that Potter was oblivious to the link's existence, and _probably _wouldn't jump to the right conclusion even if he did notice it...

This was a risk, he knew. For one, he wasn't entirely sure his plan was working. Had he managed to summon Potter? Would Potter come, even if he _did _receive the compulsion? What if he'd sensed too much in the link, and suspected Draco of trickery?

It was going to be difficult, convincing the Gryffindor he was truly repentant and needed his help. Potter had no reason to trust him, Merlin knew. But Draco had some small idea of how to get around that. He didn't need the git's trust. He just needed his guilt.

Everyone knew the Gryffindor had a martyr complex to rival Christ's and a hero complex to rival Superman (this was a phrase Draco had heard from one of the muggleborn Slytherins, and wasn't entirely clear on who these two figure were, but he appreciated the sentiment). That said, if Potter was presented with someone desperate and actually asking for his help, Draco didn't think he was physically _capable_ of walking away.

The hard part would be getting past the animosity between them just enough to dredge up guilt and pity in the other, then enduring that pity. Draco would simply have to grit his teeth and endure, reminding himself that the end would justify the means.

Mirror voiced some kind of mewl from inside his shirt and wriggled about until he emerged from the collar, scrambling out to perch on Draco's shoulder. He held his wings over his head like an umbrella and purred, _"Cold." _

The Slytherin rolled his eyes. "Then go back inside," he muttered, feeling short tempered. "I know you know the way."

_"Company?" _

Draco shook his head. "No. I'm not coming with you. I'll be back later."

_"Company!" _Mirror insisted, flapping his wings frantically, and the Slytherin finally understood.

His head jerked up to see Potter standing silently in the doorway of the Tower, staring at him with wide eyes. The other boy looked half crazed, in Draco's opinion, with his chest heaving from running and his glasses on wonky. The Slytherin sneered and dragged himself to his feet unsteadily.

"What?" he slurred in annoyance. "Never seen anyone talking to a dragon before?"


	14. Ulterior Motives

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 14**: Ulterior Motives

---

Harry's first thought, upon noting the empty bottle of Firewhiskey nearby, was that Malfoy was pissed out of his head as he sat making strange hissing sounds to the toy dragon on his shoulder. And then, to his utter amazement, the dragon actually responded, and Harry thought for the briefest of moments that he could hear the whisper of a word, something similar to Parseltongue but not _quite_ the same...

Then Malfoy looked up at him, and he dismissed the idea.

"What? Never seen anyone talking to a dragon before?"

Harry blinked at the absurdity of the question. "Are you _insane_...?" He couldn't even bring himself to put any real heat behind the demand, so stunned was he to see the usually dignified Slytherin staggering to his feet, drunk. It occurred to him that he'd now uttered that question more than once in the other's presence, and decided firmly that they had to stop meeting like this. "Malfoy, what are you _doing _up here?!"

The blonde was soaked to the bone, standing in the pouring rain dressed only in his uniform shirt and black slacks, with not even a Shield Charm to protect him from the elements. His hair was in disarray, dripping water into his already bloodshot eyes. Harry had never seen him looking so... pathetic, really, for lack of a better word.

The Slytherin tried to step forward and almost tripped, causing the odd little dragon to flutter up off his shoulder. As Harry stared in astonishment, the thing came hurtling towards him, caught up on a gust of wind that proved too strong for it. Instinctively, he reached out with a Seeker's reflexes and caught the creature like a silver Snitch.

Quickly, he cupped it between his two palms and regarded what he'd assumed was a toy in bemusement. It hissed and purred at him, cocking its head and actually seeming to... wag its tail.

"Let him go, Potter!"

_Him_...? The Gryffindor raised an eyebrow, and slowly held the dragon out towards the other. "Fine. Sorry."

Malfoy visibly hesitated. Halfway through reaching out, he froze in indecision. Thankfully, the choice was made for him as the little creature gave a surprisingly powerful flap of its wings, propelling itself back into the Slytherin's waiting hands. Harry had to shake his head as he watched the blonde all but cradle the thing, tucking it gently away inside the collar of his shirt.

Who knew Malfoy went soft when he was drunk...?

And just like that, his customary hatred for the other boy deserted him. He slumped, feeling too tired to argue or fight. The strong sense of fear and anxiety that had surged through him only moments before had vanished without a trace, and he was left feeling exhausted. Suddenly, he didn't care one bit that he was out here in this strange setting with only Malfoy for company. He slid down onto the floor, the wall of the Tower cold against his back. Let the Slytherin rage at him; let him sneer and snarl all he liked. Harry didn't think he had the energy to rise to the bait even if he'd wanted to.

A tiny part of him _wanted _Malfoy to give him a hard time. Didn't he deserve it, with the way he'd been acting lately...?

But the blonde was just watching him, looking about as despondent as Harry felt. Slowly, with a slightly confused expression, Malfoy sat back down as well. They frowned at each other suspiciously, both waiting for the usual outburst and feeling lost when it didn't come.

When the silence stretched to the point of being uncomfortable, Harry cleared his throat and nodded at the fidgeting bulge under the other's shirt. "What is that thing, by the way? It's not... _real_, is it?"

The Slytherin rolled his eyes. "Yes, Potter, I own a real, live _dragon _as a pet."

He flushed. "Well what _is _it then?!"

"It's just a model. Unfortunately I paid it a bit too much attention and accidently gave it a personality..."

"Oh," said Harry, reflecting that that was probably the longest sentence the other had ever offered him, at least in a civil tone. "Cool."

Malfoy watched him guardedly, probably suspecting sarcasm or mockery. The Gryffindor shrugged back, indifferent. He ran a hand through his hair, now damp and more tangled than ever, and rubbed his eyes under his glasses. "I don't know why I'm out here..." he muttered to no one in particular. There was a peculiar sense of calm between the two, and he simply voiced whatever thought was in his head.

His words, however, had more of an affect than he'd intended. The Slytherin seemed to recoil, biting his lip and ducking his head in what looked like abject embarrassment. Harry frowned, feeling perplexed. "Malfoy...?"

The blonde glanced at him reluctantly. "I, uhm... I may have an idea why you came up here."

"What's that supposed to mean? How would _you _know...?"

Malfoy was silent, staring at his hands as though he'd discovered the secrets of the universe hidden there. He looked weirdly... ashamed.

"What's going on?" Harry demanded, beginning to feel a bit unnerved.

Grey eyes flickered up and back down. "Remember... Well, remember that day when I... accused you of putting a curse on me?"

The Gryffindor scowled. Yes he remembered, and even the memory sparked a flicker of anger in him. He could see in his mind's eye Malfoy coming at him with a deranged expression, screaming nonsense and attacking him without provocation. He felt some of the previous calm dissipate as he ground out, "What about it?"

"Look, Potter, I don't like admitting this, but I was wrong, okay?" He hesitated again, mouth opening and closing. Then, with a look of resolve, he finished, "Not about the curse, just about you casting it."

Harry blinked, then rolled his eyes sceptically. "Come off it Malfoy. Not this again..."

"It's not just me," the other murmured, shrugging as if to say, _believe what you like_. "It's you too. If you haven't noticed already, you'll start to soon."

The Gryffindor rose slowly to his feet. His calm was entirely gone now and he felt, plainly, creeped out. "What the hell is _that _supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said. We're cursed, you and I. Haven't you noticed anything weird lately?"

Harry's eyebrows shot up incredulously. "Besides you going off the deep end, you mean? No, not really..." Shaking his head, he turned and reached for the door handle.

"_Colloportus_!"

Malfoy's spell streaked past him, slamming into the door and sealing it tight. Harry heard the lock click and knew he wouldn't be able to open it without magic. His hand slapped against his pocket, searching for his wand – and too late realised he didn't have it. His eyes went wide as he remembered tossing it down on the bed right before his encounter with Ginny. It was still in his room, and here he was trapped and defenceless with Malfoy!

"Well," the blonde said with a somewhat satisfied sigh. "This might make things a little easier..."

Harry whirled on him. "Let me the fuck out of here!"

The Slytherin held up his hands as though in surrender. "I will, I promise I will, Potter. Just hear me out."

"What now?" Harry spat, furious at being caught so off guard.

"Look... This is going to sound weird, okay? But keep in mind I have absolutely no reason to lie."

"You _always _have a reason to –"

"Not about this!" Malfoy actually looked pained, his expression twisting and his hands clenched at his sides. "This is... is _humiliating_, and degrading, and if there was _any _way to make it go away without sharing that humiliation with _you_, don't you think I'd be doing that instead?!"

"What are you talking about...?"

The Slytherin took a slightly unsteady step towards him. "We're linked, Potter. _Bonded_. And as far as I can tell there's no way to turn it off –"

Harry covered his eyes in frustration. "For the love of _God_, Malfoy, do you know how _insane _you sound?!"

"Yes! But it's true, I swear it's true!" There was desperation in his voice, and it wavered uncharacteristically. That, more than anything, made the Gryffindor pause to listen to him. "We're linked by whatever curse is on us. I don't know what it is yet, but I know it makes me sick every time I stay away from you too long."

Intensely uncomfortable, Harry looked anywhere but at the other boy. He wished Malfoy would go back to normal and start throwing hexes at him. At least then he'd be on familiar ground, and not forced to wonder if his rival was _actually _losing his mind. If he ever got the door unlocked, he was going to have to go to one of the teachers and report this. He wasn't one for snitching, but this was out of his league...

"I know you think I'm crazy," the Slytherin was saying. "Alright, yeah, I probably sound it. But _listen _to me, Potter! I know things about you that I couldn't possibly know if this wasn't true.

"Oh. Yeah. Like what?"

"You left the school the other week. You probably travelled out of Scotland, too."

The Gryffindor stared at him in shock, remembering his trip to Grimmauld Place down in London. "How did you find that out?" he blurted before he thought better of it.

"Because this bloody curse nearly killed me while you pranced across fucking England! Even if it wasn't half as bad for you, I know you'd have felt something. Did you get sick while you were gone?"

Harry's mouth fell open as, uninvited, the memory returned to him of developing a migraine and nausea while he'd been at the meeting. Then, realising what he was thinking, he shook his head. "This is so stupid. You don't know what you're talking about."

Something spiteful glinted in grey eyes. "Oh no? What about the fact that you've been daydreaming about a certain Hufflepuff, hm?"

All at once, Harry felt cold all over. He didn't move an inch, shocked into paralysis. No. Malfoy couldn't be talking about that. He must mean something else. He _had _to...!

The Slytherin's mouth tipped in a cruel smile. "And I know that, right now, you're _praying _that I'm not referring to what you think I'm referring to. After all, how could I _possibly _know about your little crush on Smith...?"

"Stop it!"

But he was relentless. "I know you'd rather fuck him any day rather than the Weaselette. I know you're terrified of her finding that out – or worse! Dear Ronald finding that out! What _would _he do to you, Potter? One dreads to think. I know you blame Dumbledore for dying on you – and if that isn't the _height _of selfishness! I know you want –"

"Shut up! Stop it, for fuck's sake!"

Malfoy sneered. "Oh don't go lowering your eyes, this isn't Legilimency. It won't make a difference. Trust me, if it were that simple we wouldn't be having this conversation. But I've _had _it! I'm even dreaming about your saintly bloody parents and your stupid muggle family. We have to find _some _way to make it stop."

Harry could only stare at the other in horror, feeling as if the earth had fallen away beneath his feet and he was falling too fast to gather his bearings. He shook his head wordlessly, all intelligent arguments swept away in the face of Malfoy's appallingly accurate details. How could he know those things...?

The Slytherin didn't give him a chance to recover. "How do you think I got you up here? The link. Send a few distress signals through it and the other one comes running."

"You're telling me... you think you _summoned _me?"

"Got a better explanation as to why you suddenly felt the irresistible urge to come running up here?"

The Gryffindor's mouth closed with an audible click as he realised, strangely, he didn't. That only served to annoy him even more, however, and he glared at the blonde stubbornly.

Malfoy shrugged helplessly. "I swear, I'm _not _the bad guy in this for once! I didn't get any choice in the matter. I'm just _stuck _with it."

"Even if what you're saying is true – and I doubt it – why would _anyone _cast this kind of curse on us? It makes no sense! There's absolutely no purpose it could serve to anyone wanting to harm either one of us."

"Oh, don't be so naive. 'Either one of us'... It's always going to be _you _as the target, Potter, just face it. The rest of us are casualties of war, _used _to get at you."

"That's not tr–"

"Of course it's true!" The Slytherin looked livid, his pale face flushed with colour. "I know about your godfather, you know. I know he died saving your worthless life from the Dark Lord."

Harry stepped back as if hit, reeling from a blow that he hadn't seen coming.

"And let's not forget Diggory. Merlin knows he'd still be walking around here fine if he'd never met _you_. What about Dumbledore? Oh admittedly, I don't know the details of how that happened, but I know you feel guilt over it. Is he another one who's died in your place? I'll bet he is."

"Why are you saying this?" the Gryffindor whispered, deeply shaken.

"Because now it's happening to me," Malfoy answered, sounding thoroughly defeated. He ran a hand through his messy hair, giving Harry a chance to notice his fingers shaking. "I'm being used to get at you, just like everyone else."

"What? How?"

"Have you never thought to wonder why you're getting visions again?"

Harry frowned. "I've always had visions. So what?"

"Merlin, you are dense. Don't you notice anything? Like the fact that _these _visions don't come through your scar? Or that you no longer get headaches beforehand, they just come without warning in the middle of the day, and not in dreams. Anything ringing a bell?"

Understanding was hovering at the edge of his mind, just out of reach, as he remembered the first vision he'd had this year, when he'd stood in the corridors arguing with Malfoy... Or the one after that, when he'd had just enough time to register a flash of blond before the pain had crashed down on him...

"..._You_?!"

The Slytherin sighed. "Now wait. Don't overreact –"

"_Overreact_?! You're working for Voldemort!"

Malfoy winced at the name, and Harry was quick to take advantage of his lapse. In a flash he was moving towards the other boy, furious, his fist raised to smack him square in the mouth.

And just as quick, he found himself facing the business end of the Slytherin's wand. He froze, glaring helplessly.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you. One touch and we're both going to be paralytic with visions." Moving carefully, Malfoy took several steps backwards, putting a safe distance between them. "If you'll just give me a chance to explain –"

"Explain what?!" Harry demanded, incredulous. "That you've been trying to hand me over to Voldemort?!"

"But I haven't!" The blonde looked so distressed that it took the other aback a little. "Just listen to me! I don't want _any _of this. I don't want to end up in the Hospital Wing again just because I stayed away from you too long, or to wake up screaming because you buggered off down to Diagon Alley! I don't want to _die _just so my dad can say, 'At least he was a good little Death Eater...'"

The Gryffindor opened his mouth to retort, then hesitated. "...Die?" he repeated quietly.

"_Yes_," Malfoy answered emphatically. "I'm being used as nothing but a bloody... _conduit_, and it's very literally killing me. I'll die long before the visions do the Dark Lord any good, or do you any real harm. I'm just collateral damage – but no one cares about that, do they?"

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I don't want anything to do with this," the blonde hissed venomously. "But I'm trapped. I would have gone to Dumbledore but he went and bloody _died_. I can't go to Severus because he'll tell my father or McGonagall – one of whom would murder me, and the other _expel_ me. That leaves you, Potter."

Harry snorted. "Me? What do you expect _me _to do for _you_? Why shouldn't I go tell McGonagall myself? God knows I'd love to see you expelled or locked up..."

He watched in disbelief as the Slytherin drew himself up, attempting to look proud even in his wretched state. "Because I... I need your help. _Please_. You know I wouldn't be putting myself through this if I wasn't desperate. I don't know what else to do..."

The Gryffindor regarded him uneasily. This was unfamiliar territory, and he didn't like it. Since when did Malfoy ask for his help, and actually sound _genuine_...? It didn't comply with the natural order of things.

"Look, if you don't want to do it for me, at least think about this. If I die, you die. If I get sick, you get sick. If you do something to ensure we're separated – like, oh I don't know, _getting me kicked out of Hogwarts _– then we'll both be trembling, puking wrecks before the week is out."

Harry dived on another arguing point – dimly aware that he was grasping at straws. "Wait a minute, Malfoy. You keep saying that. That I'll get sick or whatever. I've seen no evidence of that so far."

Grey eyes glanced skywards, as if asking for patience. "I'll bet you have, even if you won't admit it. Look, as far as I can tell, between the two of us I get the worse of the side effects."

"That's convenient..."

"Be thankful, you ungrateful prat! You have no _idea _what it felt like, lying there thinking I was _dying_!" The Slytherin spun on his heel, turning to look out over the precipice of the tower ledge. He wrapped his arms tightly around his stomach, and for long moments seemed to ignore Harry's existence entirely. The wind was dying down a little, but the rain remained as strong as ever, and the temperature had dropped. The Gryffindor felt sure that Malfoy must be completely frozen – he himself felt numb from the cold, and _he _had a jumper on! – but the other boy gave no outward sign of physical discomfort.

"Do you believe me?" he asked at last, barely whispering.

Harry glanced around helplessly. His eyes landed on the Slytherin's abandoned Nimbus 2005 and a brief fantasy of snatching it and escaping played temptingly through his head.

Instead, he let out a long breath from between his teeth, watching it turn to mist in the air before him. Slowly, he shuffled forward until he too stood at the platform's edge and looked down upon the grounds. He made sure to keep a wary distance between him and the other boy.

"I don't know," he answered honestly – surprising even himself. His instinct was to snap that the Slytherin sounded certifiably insane and demand to be released. That that wasn't what emerged from his mouth left him blinking.

Malfoy turned his head and stared at him intently. "I'm not expecting you to go on my word alone, you know." He shrugged. "I expect you're going to avoid me for the next few days after this. See for yourself what happens. See if you get sick, or start to lose sleep, or dream about people and places you're not supposed to know about. Just... Just don't leave it too long. Please."

Harry shook his head thoughtfully, speaking almost to himself. "I don't know why you'd make this up, but there might be something I'm not seeing... It's just that it would be such a _ridiculous _lie to make up!" That in itself gave the story a ring of truth, he thought privately, as farfetched as the concept seemed.

"Just don't tell anyone, okay? Not yet. They'd lynch me!"

He shrugged. "You'd deserve it."

Malfoy just looked at him, unapologetic and expectant. That, more than anything, went a way to convincing the Gryffindor. It was just so _like _the Slytherin git not to care about what he was asking of others, to just _demand _that it be done and see nothing wrong with this.

Harry scowled. "Open the damn door, Malfoy. I'll think about it."

---

Draco watched the other boy depart, waiting until he heard the stomping, hurried footsteps fade away, and let loose a triumphant grin. Merlin, he'd done it!

Oh, never before had he known the true depths of his acting talents, but even if he did say so himself he was bloody brilliant! He had Potter hook, line and sinker, he knew he did! Sappy Gryffindor git. Trust him to fall for the tortured soul routine.

At the very least, he'd given himself the time to think and consider his options now, and plan his escape route if one became necessary. It didn't matter if things took a dramatic turn either way after this, not if he could keep his act going strong. If the Dark Lord decided to take offense at him making deals with Potter, he would simply claim that he was gaining the prat's trust and insuring that he'd always have access to the Boy Who Lived, even if he _was _carted off to a safe house.

And if things went the other way, and miraculously Potter came out on top? Well he'd already planted the seeds of pity and trust in the Gryffindor. He could easily rattle off the same story to McGonagall or anyone else who questioned him. He'd made sure to tell mostly the truth anyway, adding only the smallest of falsehoods here and there in order to twist things in his favour. He hadn't, for example, mentioned the fact that he currently bore the Dark Mark, but who said that was relevant?

Draco sighed and looked down at himself, feeling relatively sober for the first time in hours. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of his wet uniform and it suddenly dawned on him how exposed to the inhospitable weather he really was.

"_Merlin_, it's freezing out here." He gathered up his broom and the empty Firewhiskey bottle, patting the shivering ball that was Mirror. "Come on, dragon. Sorry you had to endure Potter. But don't worry, it was for a good cause..."

---

Harry shook his head incredulously as he stalked back to Gryffindor Tower. No one would believe where he'd been and what he'd been doing even if he told them. He hesitated as he came to the fourth floor, more than a little tempted to drop in the Hospital Wing and convince Madam Pomfrey that Malfoy needed committing.

But no. Maybe he would have without the sudden burst of inspiration that had come to him just as he'd left the Slytherin. True, it was not among his most noble of ideas, but he was convinced it was a good one.

The blonde had reminded him of the meeting he'd attended at Grimmauld Place, and the conversation that had taken place there. Harry remembered all too clearly hearing that Voldemort was holed up in Malfoy Manor, and remembered his own suggestion in response.

Why not use Draco?

The idea had returned to him with force only moments ago. Why _not _use Malfoy? Even if what the Slytherin had said was to be believed – and Harry had to admit, he was almost swayed by some of it – there were doubtlessly a dozen ulterior motives beneath that plea for help back there.

Well it didn't matter, because he had his own motives now, and if he _did _act to help the other boy, it would ultimately be to help himself. He _knew _that Draco was the key to Malfoy Manor, if he could just figure out how to put him to use. And wasn't that what the Order was for? Wasn't it his responsibility to go after Voldemort if he had the means?

Dumbledore had said he didn't condone using Malfoy to get at his parents. Bitterly, Harry cast the memory aside. What did that matter now?

Dumbledore was gone.


	15. Change of Heart

**Sakuri: **Sorry for the extremely late update! I haven't had either laptop or internet access in absolutely ages. Hope this chapter makes up for the delay.

**---**

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 15**: Change of Heart

---

Harry did indeed intend to avoid Malfoy for the next few days, partly because he was a _tiny _bit curious to see if anything did happen to him, but mostly because, in truth, the Slytherin's behaviour had thrown him for a loop and he had to take a step back to figure out what was truly going on.

If nothing else, he had to wonder how Malfoy had known those things about him. How had he known he'd left Hogwarts? How had he known he felt guilty over Dumbledore? Alright, _maybe _those things could have been logically figured out, but _how_ had he known about Zacharias?! Harry knew – he _knew_!– there was no way that someone could have just up and guessed that...

It didn't bear thinking about. Whatever he'd felt towards the Hufflepuff... whether it was a crush or not... it had shrivelled and died with the realisation that Malfoy knew about it.

He shuddered to think who the Slytherin had blurted _that _bit of gossip out to! The only thing keeping him calm was the fact that Malfoy was asking for help – or at least pretending to, for whatever reasons of his own – and so he'd be forced to go out of his way not to upset Harry, at least for the moment. That was a little comforting, he supposed.

But Harry was sick of thinking about the blond git. As if he didn't have enough things to worry about. Well Malfoy could just go straight to the back of the line, as far as he was concerned...

---

It was well past curfew by the time he returned to the common room.

Hermione was waiting for him. When he entered, he almost didn't notice her curled up in the armchair closest to the fire, her head pillowed on the open pages of a book. Only when she sprang to her feet, looking tired and a little dishevelled, did he freeze guiltily.

"_Where _have you been?!" she demanded, stalking towards him. "Ron said you ran out of here hours ago. What have you been doing? And why– You're all wet. Have you been _outside_?!"

Harry reeled for a moment under the barrage of questions.

"I... I went for a walk. Sorry, Hermione..."

She let out a heavy sigh, reaching up to pat down her hair, which looked more frazzled than ever. "Look, I know you've been having a hard time of things lately, but that's no reason to get careless."

"Careless?" he repeated, feeling a moment's panic as he wondered if she somehow knew what he'd been doing and thinking of.

"Going out alone. Staying out after curfew. Breaking school rules. Going a... little too far with Ginny, just because you're hurting."

He gaped at her, thoroughly unable to formulate a response in the face of the sheer unexpectedness of her last comment.

"..._Excuse me_?" he managed to gasp eventually.

The witch shrugged, looking uncomfortable now. "Well, from what Ron said –"

"It's none of _Ron's _business!"

"No, of course it isn't, but Harry listen to me. Make sure it's – right – with Ginny if you're going to take the next step. Don't go through with something so important for the wrong reasons."

His face felt hot with embarrassment. This was not the sort of topic he was used to discussing with Hermione, if he'd correctly interpreted what she was implying. She was like his sister, and talking about things like... sex... with her just felt _wrong_.

"Why are telling me this?" he muttered at last, looking back at her with slight defiance. "You think I'm not happy with Ginny?"

"I didn't say that."

"You think I'd do... _that_... if I wasn't?"

"Harry –"

"You know what? It isn't any of _your _business either, Hermione. Why don't you and Ron just butt out?"

And with that he turned on his heel and stormed up the dormitory stairs, leaving behind a rather surprised Hermione.

---

He did not leave his room over the weekend, asking Dobby to bring food to him rather than go to the Great Hall to eat. He didn't want to see Malfoy, or Zacharias, or the Staff Table with Dumbledore's absence so conspicuous. He didn't want to see much of anybody, in truth.

Sometimes, without meaning to, he would find himself thinking about what Hermione had said that night. Would he really have gone that far with Ginny, if Ron hadn't interrupted them? If he was honest with himself, he didn't think so. She might have asked him to, but he couldn't. There was... something wrong. Something wrong with _him_. How could he lie on a bed with his girlfriend, his very _willing _girlfriend, and want only to get away? How could that be the case when, the next moment, he could look at another boy and experience a shameful flush of attraction?

No, there was definitely something very wrong with him.

It wasn't fair to Ginny, he supposed, but what could he do? Some part of him was still clinging to the hope that he could go back to the way it was, back to when she'd still fascinated him, back to when he'd been normal. How would people react if they found out the true depths of his freakishness? It would be second year all over again, walking round like an outcast.

And anyway. What would he say to her, even if he _did _screw up the courage to tell her it wasn't working? She was _Ginny_. The girl who, on paper, was perfect for him. She was a Weasley, part of his adopted family. Would letting go of her mean letting go of them too?

He shrank from that idea, shivered in terror with it. He couldn't. No, he couldn't. Not if it meant being alone again. He would rather stay with Ginny for the rest of his life than lose Ron and Molly and Arthur and all the others...

Sometimes, even more unpleasantly, he found himself thinking of Malfoy. Over and over again he replayed in his mind their conversation on the roof. Could the Slytherin possibly be telling the truth? It was just such a ludicrous story. If he'd been lying, wouldn't he have come up with something more believable?

But if he was telling the truth...

If he was telling the truth, things did not look good. What would it mean, being 'bonded' to Malfoy? Malfoy, who had _admitted _to working for Voldemort. Malfoy, who was responsible for inflicting the visions on him. Malfoy, who was only asking for help not because he truly wanted to do good, but because he'd found himself trapped like the rat he was.

Harry squeezed his eyes closed against the thought. And if the Slytherin had been on the level, it was just one more secret he was being forced to keep. He had lost count of those he already kept.

By Sunday, he thought briefly that he felt a twinge of headache, then dismissed it as stress.

---

He worked automatically in classes when Monday came, his movements slow but efficient, speaking only when he had something relevant to say. Potions went better than usual in this manner, Defence less so. Hermione had asked hesitantly if he was up to meeting with the DA in the Room of Requirement that evening, but he'd begged off ill, unsure if he was really lying or not.

He told himself his sudden lethargy was from exhaustion, stress, grief – anything, really, rather that acknowledging Malfoy's words of warning which sometimes sounded in the back of his head. And if he occasionally found himself glancing at the blonde – across the Potions classroom, for example, or during meal times – and noticing that the dark circles beneath his eyes had reappeared, or that his hand trembled as he dropped ingredients into a cauldron, well now, what was that to do with him? He made sure to dismiss such observations from his mind with unfailing swiftness whenever they occurred, refusing to fall for the Slytherin's act. If it _was _an act...

Continuously he flitted between these two convictions: one moment sure that this was all some new and strange plot on Malfoy's part, the next forced to admit he didn't _really _believe that, not deep down...

Frustrated, he was almost glad when Tuesday arrived and McGonagall summoned him to her office – once Dumbledore's office – to talk of Order business. It provided a good distraction.

"Mister Potter, we need you to write down the address of Grimmauld Place. We're introducing a new member into the Order."

Harry, sat opposite her on the other side of her desk, raised a sharp eyebrow. "Are we?" He shifted uncomfortably, knowing he didn't really have the right to be irritated with her for not telling him before now, or for presuming he would meekly approve. "Who is it?"

The Scotswoman cast him a glance, then busied herself handing him a sheet of parchment, some ink and a quill. "Please write it down, Harry."

Obviously hedging, he thought instantly, with the familiarity of someone accustomed to being kept in the dark by adults.

In response, he made absolutely no move to pick up the writing implements. "Who is it?" he asked again, instead. "I think I have a right to know. Is there going to be another meeting?"

"No, there is not. Not right now. But if you would _please _do as I ask you, Mister Potter, and write down the address –"

He sat forward abruptly, leaning his elbows on the arms of the chair and meeting her gaze quite steadily. "Professor, I'm not going to write down _anything _until you tell me what's going on. Dumbledore left me as Secret Keeper for a reason. If he really wanted me to unquestioningly allow anyone into the Order on nothing but your word, don't you think he'd have made _you_ Secret Keeper?"

"Potter, that is _enough_!"

Both were silent for long moments after that, glaring at each other. Distantly, Harry was aware that this was the first proper disagreement he'd ever had with McGonagall. At least, it was the first one in which he was _actively _disagreeing, and not just accepting whatever lectures and punishments she gave out, like in the past.

He lifted his chin defiantly. "I'm sorry, Professor, but I'm _not _going back to the way it was before. I'm not going to be treated like a kid who has to be told to go play while the adults are talking. I'm sick of being told _It's for the best _every time you have to fob me off without answers. Dumbledore did it all the time. All of you have."

She attempted to keep her voice reasonable as she said, "But Harry, you've failed to consider that perhaps it _is _for the best when we keep information from you. You are, after all, in a uniquely vulnerable position, and whether you like it or not, you're still very young..."

"Old enough to be Secret Keeper," he retorted calmly. "Dumbledore obviously thought I deserve more credit than I've been given in the past. Maybe this is his way of making sure you all give it to me."

She opened her mouth to argue, closed it, then settled for an unhappy glare. "If all of Albus's dealings with you were quite this trying, I do not envy him his experience..." she murmured after a while.

Harry couldn't help but flash her a grin, knowing he'd achieved some small victory for the moment.

"Very well, Mister Potter. The person we wish to accept into the Order is Terrance Boot. I believe you're acquainted," she added dryly.

Harry blinked at her wordlessly for a second, taken aback. "_Terry_?" he finally managed to ask incredulously. "What's Terry got to do with anything?" Even as he spoke, it occurred to him that he hadn't seen the Ravenclaw boy in days... Weeks, in fact. Not since their encounter in the hall, when Terry has acted so strangely about the coins. He frowned in suspicion, angry at himself for not noticing the disappearance sooner.

"Now that information _will _have to wait, I'm afraid," McGonagall was saying, holding up her hand before he could protest again. "And not because I'm treating you like a child, Merlin forbid. I will call an Order meeting when myself and Severus are ready to explain the full situation, and you will find out along with everybody else."

"_Snape _knows?" Harry demanded indignantly, crossing his arms. He supposed he should have guessed, really. Much as he disliked the fact, both McGonagall _and _Snape had been Dumbledore's right hand men. Or something to that effect...

Her lips thinned, which was never a good sign. "Yes, Harry. _Professor _Snape is perfectly aware of recent events, and has done far more than you realise to help protect you. If you are truly serious about being treated like an adult, I suggest you act like one. This childish pettiness between you and Severus must end."

"It's not just me!"

"I realise that. But it does no good to perpetuate –"

Harry suddenly sat forward with a wince, one hand pressed to his stomach as a sharp pain shot through him.

"Potter? Are you alright?"

The Scotswoman stood up in alarm and began to make her way around the desk, but he waved her away. "S-sorry, Professor. I just feel a bit sick all of a sudden." Understatement, he thought privately, as the pain of his innards contracting went through him again and their contents churned unpleasantly.

"I suggest you go to Madam Pomfrey," she was saying with some uncertainty, eyeing him as though she half expected him to keel over at any moment.

Not wanting to prove her right, he hurriedly got to his feet. "I'll do that, Professor." At the last moment he remembered to quickly scribble down the address of Grimmauld Place before bolting from the room, hand still clamped over his stomach.

But he didn't head for the Hospital Wing. He thought he knew what was wrong, and it wasn't something the medi-witch would be able to fix with a quick flick of her wand. With a sinking feeling, he quickened his pace as he headed for Gryffindor Tower, intending to grab the Marauder's Map and dash out again.

Upon turning the corner, however, he came to a halt, staring down in surprise at the floor beneath the Fat Lady's Portrait. There beneath the entrance to the Gryffindor common room was a small silver dragon that looked suspiciously familiar. The creature looked very small and very lost, and he had to forcefully remind himself that it was not real, but in fact a model – a model that belonged to Malfoy, no less.

This in mind, he stepped cautiously toward it. The dragon's silvery eyes turned to him with something like recognition and the thing immediately fluttered upwards. Instinctively, Harry whipped out his wand, but the dragon did nothing more than fly around his head a few times with startling agility, before gliding past him to land at the top of the nearest staircase. It looked back at him, chittering angrily, and he didn't need to understand what it was saying to guess it wanted him to follow it.

"I suppose this means time's up," he muttered to himself, even as he began to descend the stairs with the dragon darting ahead.

Malfoy had evidently decided he'd had enough time to think about his proposal, and had sent his little pet to come fetch him.

Harry wanted to laugh at the situation, but knew that if he did it would only come out sounding vaguely hysterical. Besides, he was too distracted trying to keep up with the swift, flashing movements of his 'guide'. He was forced to jog, then run as he tried not to lose sight of it, and the exertion did nothing to settle his roiling stomach or stop the uncomfortable pounding of blood to his head.

The dragon led him to the seventh floor, and Harry soon realised where they were going, although he wasn't too pleased about it. Sure enough, he found himself led to the entrance of the Room of Requirement, and felt intense displeasure at the thought of Malfoy using this place.

Stepping forward, he reached out to open the door, but before he could so much as touch the handle, another cramp in his stomach almost doubled him over. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to vomit, wondering frantically why such symptoms seemed to have come upon him without warning.

From within the Room came a muffled cry of similar pain, and Harry froze at the sound.

Steeling himself, wand still in hand, he opened the door and stumbled inside. The dragon shot past him in a flash of glinting silver, leaving him to be momentarily distracted by the layout of the room. It was dimly lit, like somewhere a person might come to rest or recover. Indeed, there was a bed present that had been slightly rumpled by the weight of someone lying there, although it was empty now.

Realising this, he took another few steps into the room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness as he glanced about in search of Malfoy. There were several chairs but these, too, were empty.

He took a breath to call out, then stopped and wrinkled his nose as he detected the smell of sickness hanging about the place. It worsened his own nausea, and he quickly cast a charm that cleared the air.

"Malfoy? Are you here?"

A groan startled him and he whirled around, still not seeing anything. Shuffling hesitantly toward the sound, he craned his neck to try and see over the edge of the bed. There was a rug on the floor there, and from his current position he could just see the hem of a robe as well.

Three quick strides carried him the rest of the way, and all of a sudden he found himself staring down, dumbstruck, at a barely conscious Draco Malfoy.

The Slytherin was on his back, his limbs sprawled as though from a fall, and seemed to have been in that position for a while. He looked a state. His clothing was rumbled horribly and soaked with sweat, which still shone sickly on his skin. There were also questionable looking stains down the front of his robes that Harry thought might be vomit, and had to fight not to recoil – if only because it unnerved him deeply to see Malfoy like this, so far from his usually perfect image. Horrified, he flicked his wand and vanished the stains before he did anything else.

"Christ Malfoy! What the hell happened to you?!"

He dropped to his knees, instinctively wanting to help somehow, but not knowing how. He hovered indecisively, trying desperately to remember a healing spell, any healing spell, and coming up blank.

Malfoy seemed to return to himself a little, then. He opened his eyes, which looked bright with fever, and tried weakly to move away when he saw how close the Gryffindor was to him.

"Don't touch me, Potter."

"Look, you need help –"

"No!" The Slytherin became frantic as he tried to sit up and failed. One hand reached up and clawed at the bed spread above him and his eyes were wild.

Finally Harry backed off, holding up his hands. "Alright," he said, voice strained. "Alright, I won't come any nearer. What... what happened to you?"

Malfoy slowly slumped back into his prone position, and without warning began to laugh. It was not a pleasant sound, full of bitterness and scorn. "You've forgotten what I told you already, Potter?" he rasped. "You must have, if you think it's safe to touch me."

The Gryffindor blinked, and just like that it came back to him. He'd been too shocked by the sight of Malfoy's distress to fully register what had caused it.

"Did... did _I _do this...?"

The Slytherin's eyes, made silver by their too-bright glaze, slid towards him and locked with his own. He found suddenly he couldn't look away, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead he was made to watch as Malfoy's breath came in quick, rapid little gasps, and the sheen of sweat made the angles of his face far too prominent, and the muscle in his jaw jumped continuously with the pain he was in.

"Yes," the blonde finally managed to spit. "Yes, Potter, you did this. I told you! I _told _you not to leave it so long!"

Harry shook his head helplessly. "I didn't know!" he protested, though it was a weak excuse even to his own ears.

"Yes you did," the Slytherin countered viciously. "I told you in no uncertain terms what would happen. I told you I could _die _from this! And what do you do? Hide away in your room, not even let me catch a glimpse of you in the Great Hall, not even –"

"I'm sorry, okay?!" Harry ran an unsteady hand through his hair. "I didn't think it would be this bad. Look. What can I do?"

Malfoy turned his head and gestured vaguely towards the bed. "And don't touch me," he snapped quickly, when Harry automatically reached out.

"Oh. Sorry." Feeling awkward and inept and guilty, the Gryffindor got to his feet and took out his wand. With a quick, "_Levicorpus_!" he lifted Malfoy back onto the bed without ever laying a hand on him. He also used his magic to clean the blonde up a little, refreshing his clothes and hair – which was the limit of his knowledge of how to make him any more comfortable. Biting his lip, he stood back and hovered uselessly.

The Slytherin closed his eyes and seemed to relax somewhat, though he was obviously far from being better. The silver dragon, which Harry had lost track of until now, fluttered over to land on the pillow beside the blonde, poking its small snout into his hair before curling up and seeming to go to sleep. Harry could help but eye it in bemusement.

He shifted slightly, and was alarmed when Malfoy's eyes flew wide and his hand twitched convulsively at his side, as though he wanted to grab onto something. "Potter, don't leave!"

"I... I wasn't going to," he said, surprised into honesty. Moving slowly, so that the Slytherin could watch what he was doing, he crossed the room and cautiously took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs nearby.

The blonde was staring at him warily. "You won't leave?" he asked in a quiet voice, and Harry thought to himself, with impressive serenity, that Hell must have frozen over if he was really hearing those words from Draco bloody Malfoy.

Outwardly, he only shook his head. "I won't leave. But when you wake up you can answer some questions, Malfoy."

The Slytherin swallowed and gave a shallow nod of his head. "Alright."

If asked, Harry couldn't have given any real explanation for how he ended up sitting in the Room of Requirement, having been led there by a fake dragon, watching over the sleeping Prince of Slytherin. He barely understood his own motivations, and certainly couldn't have justified them under questioning. But one thing, if nothing else, was now clear in his mind:

Malfoy had been telling the truth.

He couldn't decide if that was a good or bad thing, however.


	16. Manipulation

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 16**: Manipulation

---

Draco wished he could have said the weakness he'd shown to Potter had been part of an act that would further hook him. He _wished _fervently he could have said that. _Had _it been an act, it would have been a master piece of manipulation: displaying just enough suffering to appeal to the Saviour's need to play hero, casting just enough blame to trap him with guilt, being just pathetic and needy enough that Potter found it down right impossible to walk away, no matter what his better judgement was telling him.

But it hadn't been an act.

Right now he was still pretending to be asleep and had to fight the urge to burrow under the bed covers with the shame of it all. Had he _actually _said the words, 'Potter, don't leave'...?! His face flamed with humiliation.

Desperately, he tried to calm down. He didn't want Potter to know he was awake just yet, not until he'd figured out how he was going to play this situation. He'd slept deeply and dreamlessly – for once – and felt much better for it, but now had no idea how much time had passed. He could tell the Gryffindor was still present, though. His mind raced as he tried to anticipate what the other boy would be thinking right now, what questions he would have come up with as he'd sat keeping watch, and what answers it would be safe to give him, if any. What if he asked how Draco had come to have the mission? What if he asked if he'd been Marked? What if–

"Malfoy, I know you're awake. I can see you blushing."

Draco's eyes shot open incredulously. "I am _not _blushing...!" he spluttered, all the while aware that his face was heating up conspicuously. He told himself it was from anger.

Potter was sitting calmly in the same chair he'd taken to earlier, smirking at him. The only sign that he'd moved so much as a muscle was the book on Quidditch that was now resting in his lap. Draco frowned at it curiously, before remembering they were in the Room of Requirement. No doubt the Room had simply given the Gryffindor something to cure his boredom.

No, what really caught the Slytherin's attention was the sight of Mirror perched contently on the other boy's shoulder, seeming perfectly at ease in Potter's presence. Outraged, Draco had hissed a command before he could stop himself.

Obediently, the silver dragon returned to him with a quick flap of its wings, but the Gryffindor's green eyes widened significantly.

He pointed an accusing finger at Draco. "I heard you doing that the other night as well! I thought you were just drunk. But..." He hesitated, then asked, "Can you really talk to it?"

Silently, Draco cursed himself. He was already worried about what information Potter would want out of him, and here he was freely handing over even more!

Sighing, he levered himself up into a sitting position. Instantly, two more pillows appeared out of nowhere behind him, comfortably propping him up. He smiled absently, remembering why he'd chosen the Room of Requirement to come nurse his wounds.

"Yes," he admitted eventually, deciding it was better to tell the truth on this one. It might earn him some credit. "I can talk to it. I think it has something to do with the... uhm, bond."

The Gryffindor went visibly tense. "The one you said existed between you and me."

"That's the one," Draco chirped sarcastically.

"What does that have to do with you being able to speak to dragons?!" came the incredulous question.

"You're a Parselmouth, Potter."

"So? _I _can't make out anything it's saying."

Draco was surprised to feel interest rising in him as one of his theories was confirmed. "I did wonder about that," he admitted – sounding more like Hermione in that moment than he'd ever know. "I wasn't sure if I was suddenly a Parselmouth or not, in all honesty, since I couldn't exactly test it. But if I'm not speaking the same language you do when you talk to snakes, at best guess I'd say the bond... mutated the ability, maybe?"

The Gryffindor was staring at him with a mixture of perplexity, incredulity and frustration. "Christ, Malfoy, have you got any _more _surprises you want to throw at me while we're here?!"

He shrugged. "No. I think I gave you the gist of it all the last time we talked."

Potter glared at him. "Go over it again," he ordered, sounding deadpan.

Draco sighed and considered himself very patient. "Fine. There's a bond between us –"

"How was it cast?"

The Slytherin bristled at being interrupted already, then deflated slightly when he realised he couldn't answer. "I don't know, exactly," he said honestly, trying to look a bit more pathetic and hoping the other would take pity on him. "But I know it was an accident. It wasn't supposed to be me bonded to you."

"There was someone else?"

"I think so. But don't ask me who, 'cause I never found that out."

Potter made an impatient gesture with his hand. "Alright. Go on."

"This bond... I don't know its exact nature... but I know it's supposed to let me pass on visions to you."

"Well we know _that _part works..." the Gryffindor commented irritably.

"Oh shut up and listen, Potter. Obviously, that only happens when we make contact, so from now on you can keep at least three feet between us at all times. The big problem is the fact that... well..."

"I can't just stay away from you and be done with," Potter finished for him, heaving a sigh and slumping back in his chair. "No, that would be too simple. You have to up and snuff it if I leave you alone for five minutes."

"I hardly think –!"

"That's right, you don't." He shot to his feet abruptly, folding his arms in obvious frustration and turning his back, beginning to pace about the room restlessly. "Let me get this straight. From now on, I have to permanently be on guard not to touch you, even accidently. I have to somehow subject myself to your company on a fairly regular basis, so that neither of us continues to get sick – or worse. I can't tell anyone because they'd immediately separate us by expelling or arresting you. I have to trust that you're not double crossing me, or that you won't suddenly change your mind and run back to Voldemort – oh stop cringing! And all of this relies on the basic fact that you're a coward who's realised he made a stupid decision and is now trying to save his miserable little life." The Gryffindor turned back then, and pinned him with a cold, expectant stare.

Draco realised his mouth was slightly open in shock, but he couldn't seem to close it. He felt trapped, held immobile by the weight of the Gryffindor's glare, and the flood of sparking emotion that was travelling through the bond and, really, who knew Potter's eyes were _that _green when he was angry...?

The Slytherin quickly shook that last thought out of his head and tried to remember what he'd been asked.

"It won't be that bad," he tried, though even to him this sentiment lacked conviction. "You'll only have to put up with all that until we figure out how to break the bond."

Potter looked suddenly intrigued. "It can be broken?"

Draco shrugged. "I assume so. Most bonds can be broken, one way or another."

In truth, he was more than a little worried about this part of the plan. It would take a great deal of manipulation on his part to come out looking good on both sides. Breaking the bond seemed the only logical solution if he wanted to save his skin and detach himself from Potter, but it also meant coming up with one hell of an explanation for when the Dark Lord asked what had happened. He was banking on being able to say that Potter had discovered and broken the bond himself.

"And how would we go about doing that?" the Gryffindor was ranting, running both hands through his hair in a vulgar fashion and making it stick up even more. "You don't even know _how_ it was cast or what _exactly_ it does!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Well we'll _research _it! Merlin, I know that concept might be a little alien to you, but do _try_ and keep up..."

"Piss off, Malfoy." And as quickly as his temper had come upon him, it seemed to drain away. The Gryffindor's shoulders slumped and he sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Scandalised, Draco retracted his legs as quickly as possible, drawing his knees up to his chest and glaring moodily over the top of them.

They were both silent, each realising the true scale of the predicament they were in. Potter hid his face in his hands while Draco once again fought back the urge to curl up under the covers and never come out. Minutes ticked by in this manner.

"What time is it?" the Slytherin suddenly asked, as the query occurred to him for the first time since he'd woken up.

"Evening," Potter responded dully, his voice muffled by his hands. "About seven, I think. Why?"

Draco opened his mouth to explain that he hadn't eaten anything all day and was just wondering how long he'd have to wait for the next meal in the Great Hall, but the loud growl of his stomach answered the question for him. He promptly flushed deeply in embarrassment as Potter looked at him, but was further distracted by the sudden appearance of a tray in his lap.

Wordlessly, both boys blinked at it in astonishment. It was laden with all Draco's favourite foods, right down to a slice of cherry pie for desert.

"I could grow to like this place," he commented idly, already picking up the knife and fork that has been provided for him. "It works better than house elves."

The Gryffindor rolled his eyes and got to his feet, looking unimpressed. "Enjoy your meal, Malfoy." He _almost _managed to say it without a sneer, too.

That gave Draco pause. Before he could stop himself, he was staring up at the other boy pleadingly and asking, "You're not going to go back to avoiding me, are you?"

Potter scowled at him. "No. I suppose I can't, much as I'd like to." He seemed to consider for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. "Fine. How about meeting back here tomorrow? Seven-ish. I'll spend an hour with you."

Draco shied from the idea of being Potter's pity project, but he had little other choice. He nodded in defeat. "That should be... alright." He stared down stubbornly at his food as he listened to the Gryffindor making his way towards the door. Only there did he pause, and Draco silently cursed him to get out.

"Malfoy?"

"What?" the blonde snapped, still not looking up.

"You took the Dark Mark, didn't you?"

Draco's head shot up so fast it hurt his neck. Distantly, he knew he looked like a dear in headlights, frozen and wide-eyed with panic, but he couldn't bring himself to move. So caught off guard was he by the question that his thoughts screeched to a halt when he needed them most. He scrambled desperately for a loophole, a distraction, a plausible lie – anything that would get him out of admitting the truth.

But nothing sprang to mind, and his silence was answer enough.

Potter nodded grimly. "Thought so. I'm not stupid, you know, Malfoy. If you're giving me visions of Voldemort, you must be linked to him too. You took the Mark, and you had to be _willing _to do that."

"I... I..."

The other boy cut off whatever stammering excuse he was going to give with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm not interested. I'll help you break the bond and I won't tell anyone about it for the moment, because I don't want any more complications." His expression... his entire demeanour... turned cold and remote and entirely unlike the goofy Gryffindor Draco tended to think of. "But after that, you're on your own. You're a Death Eater, Malfoy, and don't think I'll be doing you any favours. When this is over, you can get out of here. I'll tell McGonagall and Snape and anyone else who'll listen to me that you've taken the Dark Mark."

"Potter...!" he managed to croak out in protest, horrified by the future that had just been painted for him.

But Potter didn't stick around to listen. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the Room of Requirement before another word could be spoken, leaving Draco alone to sit trembling on the bed, his eyes tightly closed, his appetite now nonexistent.

He'd wanted to play the victim in the Gryffindor's eyes, relying on his heroic habits to help him. But Potter knowing that he'd taken the Dark Mark flew in the face of the image he'd been trying to project, and now look where he'd gotten himself. Potter was going to tell. He'd blown his cover for nothing!

He took a breath to steady himself. No, not for nothing. He'd been promised a respite, after all. He had until they broke the bond. Only afterwards would it all come crashing down, and that at least gave him time to plan another escape route.

He knew, in a vague sort of way, that he was playing a bit too fast and loose with this whole manipulation thing, trying to stay a step ahead of both Potter and the Dark Lord. He was good, but this was pushing it even for him. Still, wasn't he his father's son? He might not appreciate the current situation Lucius had put him in, but he'd be a fool if he dismissed his father's talent at this sort of thing. The man saw everything through the eyes of a politician, judging what those around him wanted and whether or not giving it to them would be beneficial; skilled at telling them what they wanted to hear; positively gifted at evading blame, no matter what disaster broke over the heads of those around him.

Draco would just have to emulate those talents. And if he did say so himself, he'd been doing a pretty good job so far. He calmed slightly as he thought of this, realising that things were still manageable. Just.

That said, he still couldn't bring himself to eat any of the food laid out before him.

---

Harry took a deep breath as he stepped out into the hall. Had he really just made a bargain with Malfoy? With a Death Eater?! A bargain that involved harbouring a dangerous and undoubtedly irresponsible secret from the Hogwarts Professors and Order members and fellow students...!

He stopped walking and braced himself with one hand against the wall.

No, he couldn't start doubting himself. He _knew _what he was doing was risky, possibly even foolish, but he had his reasons.

Let McGonagall and Snape keep their secrets about what was going on in the Order. Let them keep him out of the loop, no matter that the Order itself would be pointless without him. The Scotswoman could say all she liked about changing the way she treated him, he knew she still saw him as a child. And as for Snape, Harry didn't think it would matter if he was married with kids; the Potions Master would forever see him as the clumsy eleven year old who resembled James Potter just a little too closely.

No, he reminded himself yet again, the support of adults obviously couldn't be counted on. And that meant he would just have to go about things his own way. Didn't he always? Merlin, even in first year he hadn't been able to count on anyone but Ron and Hermione as they went in search of the Philosopher's Stone, and that had been pretty much the case from then on.

He did feel a twinge of unease as he realised he'd managed to isolate himself from even them in this endeavour, though.

But they would never approve. They would talk him out of this, which was why it had to be kept a secret. This was something he had to do, because he knew, somehow, it would be useful, even if nobody else approved his actions. It wasn't like he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart or some misplaced sense of altruism, anyway. He was doing it because, for one, he really didn't want to be responsible for Malfoy dying, much as he disliked the git. Secondly, he really _would _like to break whatever spell was cast over them as quickly as possible, and he imagined that bringing it to the attention of the Order could lead to any number of delays as they dithered over a course of action. And three...

It would give him an in.

The Malfoys were perhaps the most high profile Death Eaters out there – even if, ironically, no one could prove it. What's more, Voldemort was currently holed up inside their Manor. As he'd speculated in the past, the youngest Malfoy was the most obvious weakness in their defences, if Harry could just find a way to exploit that...

Once again he recalled what Dumbledore had said about the lack of morals in using children.

Harry snorted. If Malfoy was old enough to be a Death Eater, and _he _was old enough to be Secret Keeper, he didn't think that was much of a problem anymore.

There were no children in this.


	17. Truce

**Title: **Redeemable

**Authoress**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Summary**: Beginning with yet another futile attempt at improving inter-House relations at Hogwarts, Harry soon finds himself the victim of a miscast and mysterious curse which results in him being inexorably bonded to Draco Malfoy, who in turn is on the fast track to becoming the junior Death Eater Harry always knew him to be... HPDM slash.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one

**Chapter 17**: Truce

---

Hermione wasn't talking to him after he'd told her to butt out, and Ron still couldn't look at him without growling since he'd walked in on him and Ginny together, so it wasn't too difficult to slip away from the common room the next evening when seven came. Caught up as he was in his secretive mission, it was only when he actually reached the Room of Requirement that it occurred to him to feel awkward. He'd said he'd spend an hour here with Malfoy, but now he wondered what he was going to spend that hour _doing_! They were far from friends, so it wasn't like they could sit and spend the time talking amiably. They weren't even civil acquaintances, so a comfortable silence was out of the question. Hexing each other seemed both a more likely and more enjoyable pastime, but he didn't think it was very conductive to his plan.

Steeling himself, he opened the door to the Room and reluctantly stepped inside. Casting a glance about him, he was unimpressed to realise the decor had been changed to Slytherin colours. There were dark wooden floorboards under his feet, but across the room, in front of the marble fireplace which glowed with life, was a luxurious green rug. Malfoy's silver dragon was curled up on it as if the creature was no more than the average pet dog. Its master sat nearby, occupying one of several dark green leather chairs that had been arranged around the fire.

He glanced up when Harry entered, his face back to the customary cool mask of disdain. One fine blond eyebrow rose slowly while the rest of him remained poised and tense. "You're late, Potter," he murmured lowly, and even then barely moved his lips. Already Harry wanted to slap him, but at least he was reassured that the other boy felt just as awkward and unsure as he did.

He nodded in greeting, hesitantly making his way over to the chairs. No sooner had he approached, one of the stern, high-backed chairs gave a quiver and transformed itself into a sprawling, squishy red armchair, a perfect copy of those that littered the Gryffindor common room. Harry couldn't help but flash a grin as he saw the look of wide eyed indignity on Malfoy's face, and it put him somewhat at ease to know he was irritating the other as he flopped down gracelessly onto the soft cushions.

"So," he said conversationally, "how're things?"

The Slytherin's grey eyes narrowed in warning. "Don't act like you're _enjoying _this."

Harry shrugged, having thought about this most of last night. "I figure since we're stuck in this situation, we might as well make the best of it."

"There _is _no 'best of it'. Don't kid yourself."

"There isn't if you're going to be like that. Look. This could clearly be hell for both of us. We have no reason whatsoever to get along, and we know exactly how to push each other's buttons. But we're stuck together, if what you've said is true. Don't you think it might be a good idea for us to at least _try _and behave?"

The blonde continued to look unmoved. In fact, he still hadn't moved so much as a muscle since Harry had arrived, frozen in place with his legs crossed and his fingers linked and his chin lifted proudly, until Harry had to wonder if keeping himself in check really required such tight self-control on the other's part. Eventually, Malfoy gave a delicate sneer. "Fraternizing with the enemy, Potter? I'm shocked."

"I'm not 'fraternizing'. I'm being practical. Do _you _want to subject yourself to arguing and fighting every time we see each other? Which, thanks to you, is now a lot more often than either of us would like..."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying we be civil until we figure out how to break this bloody spell that's on us. Besides," he added slyly, "it'll only be a temporary truce. After this you can have at me, Malfoy."

Grey eyes studied him carefully, the Slytherin's pointed face angled slightly to one side. "Temporary," he repeated cautiously, as if testing the word.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead leaned forward to extend his hand in offering. "Truce?"

To his surprise, Malfoy's eyes widened dramatically and his previously motionless fingers suddenly clenched into fists in his lap. His head whipped around to pin the Gryffindor with a direct glare. "Don't be a fool, Potter!" His gaze flicked scornfully over the outstretched hand that still hovered between them. "Haven't you listened to _anything _I've told you?"

Harry flushed as he immediately recalled the other's emphatic warning never to touch him, and decided he really would have to keep that in mind. "Oh. Sorry. But do we have a deal?"

The blonde shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still looking mildly alarmed that the Gryffindor had wanted to shake his hand. "Fine. Deal," he snapped at last, finally breaking his unnatural stillness to lean down and reach behind his chair, pulling out a stack of five leather bound books. He promptly tossed two of them to Harry, who scrambled to catch them in surprise. "Here. I got these from the Library. Not like we can be seen there together, so I thought here and now is as good a chance as any to research magical bonds. This is everything I could find on them."

Harry examined the books curiously, although he began to frown as he realised something. "Malfoy, these are –"

"To do with Dark magic, yes I know. I got a couple of them from the Restricted Section. Oh don't look at me like that. What did you expect? This _is _a spell from the Dark Lord, Potter."

The Gryffindor snorted but conceded the point. In silence he flipped open the first book and started reading. Almost instantly, he realised that the vast majority of the information within was doomed to go straight over his head, and spent a moment wishing he could just set Hermione on the case, who would undoubtedly relish investigating into something so obscure. But with a sigh, he reminded himself that such a thing was impossible, and managed to gather his concentration enough to soldier on.

The introduction was difficult enough to understand. It talked about all the different types of magical bonds that could be created, and there were plenty, despite the fact that, as stressed by the book, it was a very imprecise brand of magic, and usually accidental. It touched upon the bond between soulmates – though it stressed that these were _incredibly _rare and hardly ever activated – and the similar bonds that could be manufactured between married couples. It touched upon life debts and even Unbreakable Vows. It talked about the bonds of magical creatures, sometimes with humans – like Dumbledore and Fawks, Harry realised vaguely – and sometimes with mates of their own species – like Veela or werewolves, the book explained. It talked about the difference between accidental bonds, natural ones, and deliberate ones, explaining that each type came with its own set of benefits and consequences.

And this was only the introduction.

By the time Harry had read all that, his head was spinning with the influx of information. Pausing a moment, he pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes, keeping his place in the book with one finger as he closed it over and glanced up. Only to find Malfoy looking back at him.

"What?" he demanded instantly, bracing himself for some sneering remark, sure that the Slytherin had already discarded the memory of their so called truce.

But the blonde only blinked, as if abruptly realising he'd been staring, and swiftly returned his attention to his own book. Harry frowned at him, wondering what he'd been thinking just then. He studied him curiously. Despite himself, Malfoy seemed to have relaxed somewhat in the half hour they'd been sitting together. Harry supposed it would be tiring not to, trying to keep up that unnerving stillness that the Slytherin had first exhibited. Now, he sat with one leg tucked up under him, leaning heavily on one of the armrests with his book held loosely in one hand. In the heat and stuffiness from the fire, he'd undone the top button of his collar and, seemingly without thinking, rolled up his sleeves to the elbow.

Harry's eyes fixed unwaveringly on the snake and skull tattoo that disfigured the pale and slender arm which was on display. He felt a prickle along the back of his neck as he looked at it and suddenly he was angry at Malfoy all over again, and had to force down the urge to start shouting. He swallowed once, twice, and with difficulty managed to steady his voice, though it was nothing but a whisper by the time he managed to speak.

"So when did you get that?"

The Slytherin glanced at him coolly, followed the line of his gaze, and suddenly slapped a hand over the Mark as he realised what Harry had been staring at. "Damn it, Potter! None of your business!" He wasted no time in yanking his sleeve back into place, colouring heavily as he did so. That struck the Gryffindor as slightly odd, since he'd expected gloating arrogance from the other now that he'd gotten over the shock of Harry actually knowing about the Mark. He certainly hadn't expected Malfoy to seem... ashamed.

"Well?"

"This little visit of yours doesn't actually require us talking to each other," the Slytherin responded snidely. "So I'd appreciate you shutting up."

"I would have thought you'd be bragging, Malfoy," he commented with false casualness. "You're finally just like your father. Mummy must be so proud."

Malfoy snarled. "Don't you talk about my parents, Potter! You don't know anything!"

Harry opened his mouth to retort that he knew Draco was now just as much of a snake as Lucius Malfoy, but then snapped it shut before the words could escape. He spent another moment seething, then with a sigh through gritted teeth allowed his anger to trickle out of him. So much for their truce. He didn't know why he was _bothering _to be angry, anyway. He'd expected no more than becoming a Death Eater from Malfoy, so why did he feel outraged just because those expectations had been met? He shouldn't. He should feel nothing but grim vindication.

Forcing the thoughts out of his head, he returned his attention to the book he was supposed to be researching from. He stared at it without really seeing, however, and after about five minutes it dawned on him that he hadn't absorbed one word he'd read. Resignedly, he flicked back to where he'd started and began again, trying to will his mind to focus. He hated research, but over and over he reminded himself that this was _important_. This was relevant. This was happening right now and he _had _to find a way to end it –!

"A few weeks ago."

He looked up at the Slytherin blankly, feeling lost. "Huh...?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes, then gripped his left arm over the concealed Dark Mark. "I only got it a few weeks ago. Not long."

"Oh." Harry didn't really know what to say after that, or why the blonde was freely offering the information. He shrugged, and asked the only question that seemed sensible to him: "Why?"

"...Why what?"

"Why'd you take it?"

Malfoy looked at him as if he was insane. "Why do you honestly think, Potter? My father told me that the... the Dark Lord had requested it. He came and got me, and the next thing I knew it was done, just like that."

"Your father _did _that to you?! Just... just _handed _you _over_?!"

"It's not a bad thing!" the Slytherin protested hotly, scowling. "It's what I wanted. What I've always wanted..."

Harry shook his head and looked away, his skin crawling slightly. Distantly, he was aware of the surreal nature of the conversation, calmly discussing their places on opposite sides of the war, but it didn't seem real to him. Here in the Room of Requirement they had a truce. It didn't matter that they still despised each other, it didn't matter that when this was over they'd betray the other in a heartbeat, it didn't even matter that their agreement was void anywhere outside the Room.

"Why are you telling me all this?" he asked at last, for lack of a better question.

Malfoy lifted one shoulder and waved a dismissive hand. "You said yourself that you're going to tell everyone anyway, once we've figured this out. Why bother hiding it?"

Harry experienced an odd realisation then, as he suddenly understood something about the Slytherin. He knew exactly why Malfoy was answering his questions, perhaps better than the other boy did himself. The Dark Mark had been a secret, a burden that couldn't be shared, couldn't be mentioned or admitted. Harry knew far too well the terrible pressure of keeping secrets. Regardless of how Malfoy felt about the Mark itself, keeping it hidden had taxed him, and now he was simply taking advantage of the fact that someone else – _anyone_ else – knew about it.

The Gryffindor recoiled from the sense of empathy.

That, he thought, had been far too intimate an understanding of the enemy. He would have to keep in mind that he was doing this only to get what he wanted from Malfoy, not to _understand _him. He wondered bitterly if such insight was a symptom of the bond.

Seeking the distance of the academic approach, he tapped his finger against the pages in his lap. "So what sort of thing should I be looking for in here?"

The Slytherin blinked, obviously thrown by the abrupt change of topic. Caught off guard, he floundered for a moment. "How should I know?!"

"Malfoy!"

"What?! I'm not an expert on this!" He continued to scowl for a moment, then let the expression ease into consideration. "I suppose... I suppose we try to figure out what _type _of bond it is first. After that we can look into breaking it."

Harry grunted in acknowledgement. "So what 'type' is it?"

"Merlin, Potter, if it was as simple as that I'd have done this myself by now! The only things I can tell you about it are that, for one, it's obviously designed to keep us in close proximity. When we spend too long out of the presence of the other, it has the power to... to punish us, I guess... by making us sick. For whatever reason, it seems to affect me worse than you."

The Gryffindor nodded as he absorbed all this, then looked up with a frown as he remembered something the other had said. "And how did this 'bond' lead to you knowing... those things... about me? That you mentioned on the roof, I mean..."

The blonde flashed him a malicious grin, obviously unable to repress the reaction. "What? You mean finding out that you want to shag Smith?"

Harry's eyes flew wide. "I do _not _–!"

Malfoy cut him off with an infuriating flick of his fingers. "Oh not anymore. Don't worry, I already figured that out. But you did." His grey eyes glittered, their expression unreadable. "See, that's the other thing about the bond. It shares things. It obviously shares magic, hence my newfound ability to speak to dragons. But it shares... emotions as well. Thoughts, sometimes."

"It... it does what?" A chill had come over the Gryffindor and he sat rigid in his comfortable red armchair. Malfoy knew what he was thinking....? Knew what he was... _feeling_?!

"Relax, Potter. It's not _that _accurate. Not like Legilimency. I can just about catch glimpses. Impressions, if you will. Enough to realise you're not quite as straight-laced as most people think... forgive the pun." He looked delighted with himself by the time he'd finished talking, sitting back in his chair with a wide smile.

"I wish you'd stop implying I'm gay."

"I'm not _implying_ anything, Potter. I'm stating fact."

Harry decided not to dignify this with a response. Pointedly, he waved aside the tangent they'd found themselves on. "Alright, then why is it only one way? You know what I'm thinking and stuff, but I've never had anything like that from you."

"Yes you have. You came running to the roof that night when... when I was afraid."

Green eyes blinked slowly. "That was really you? I mean... You really felt like that?"

Colour suddenly stung the blonde's cheeks and he looked away. "Just see if you can find mention of symptoms like those in one of these books. The sooner we identify the spell, the sooner we end it."

Harry agreed, and without further protest went back to reading. His mind still whirled, but with force of will he managed to concentrate. Opposite him, the Slytherin pored over his own book, absorbing the words at a frantic rate, much faster than Harry.

It occurred to neither of them to check the time, and consequently neither realised that they had sat and talked well beyond the requisite hour.

When Harry finally did rouse himself and notice that he'd actually missed dinner, he took the books Malfoy had given him and left in high dudgeon. Standing in the hall outside the Room of Requirement, he paused a moment, trying to figure out what it was that seemed to be missing. Scowling, it occurred to him that, despite spending an inordinate amount of time in the Slytherin's presence, he had not gotten so much as one solid insult out of his system.

"Ponce," he muttered to himself, shaking his head scornfully, before setting off to see if he could convince Dobby to feed him.

---

Behind him, still sitting in his high-backed green leather chair, Draco stared straight ahead and drummed his fingers in contemplation.

"Wanker," he finally said with a decisive air, and began gathering up his things.


End file.
